


The Wolf Of Riften

by LadyoftheLostandFound



Series: The Wolf of the Rift [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adopted Children, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, Attempted Sexual Assault, Betrayal, Blacksmithing, Blood and Violence, Bounty Hunters, Chronic Pain, Companions, Dads of Skyrim, Dark Elves, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, High Fantasy, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Jorrvaskr, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Parenthood, Past Child Abuse, Power Play, Riften, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Step-parents, Thieves Guild, Topping from the Bottom, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Reveal, Werewolf Sex, Whiterun, Widowed, dork dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-07-15 13:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheLostandFound/pseuds/LadyoftheLostandFound
Summary: After an attack by Stormcloak army endangers the lives of his two daughters, Felnore Greymane throws down his axe and walks out on The Circle. He is through with the Companions of Jorrvaskr, the people he trusted to keep his family safe.But a wolf without a pack is as good as dead in the wilds of the Nine Holds.With the civil war between the Imperials and the Stormcloaks escalating to dangerous proportions, Felnore makes the hard decision to leave Whiterun for good and journey east to Riften city. Joined by his sword-for-hire Jenassa, a Dark Elf with an incredible talent for scathing remarks, Felnore is forced to lead them into the unknown where their path will eventually be crossed with that of the Thieves Guild and a green-eyed master of the art of stealth and deception, the Prince of Thieves himself.





	1. Meet The Cast List

**Author's Note:**

> _If this story had a tagline, it would be: "Ugh, Felnore!"_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Story Theme Song:_ **Óró, sé do bheatha 'bhaile** by Seo Linn  
>  Well hello there! It's a fine day with you around.
> 
> "The Wolf of Riften" is a coconut grab-bag of a story that was inspired by my in-game Blacksmith's ongoing Sisyphean attempts to lead a normal life in a world that is anything but. Surviving the perils of Skyrim will always come second to raising his two daughters who, he will openly admit, have him wrapped around their clever little fingers. His eldest is a teenager who just discovered that young men are interesting and there is a certain master pick-pocket who might be worth investigating.
> 
> What is a single stressed-out father to do? Aside from panic and wield really big axe?
> 
> In this case, all Fel can do is his best while the odds are stacked against him because just about everyone either wants something from him or is trying to kill him. How is one person supposed to succeed against such impossible odds?
> 
> I have no idea. Not a single clue.
> 
> So when his heart does get stolen by a certain green-eyed Prince of the Thieves, Felnore's already chaotic world gets utterly blindsided. The whole cartoon ACME anvil to the old noggin routine. Little does our big-hearted Papa Wolf know that in the far-reaching shadows of Riften he is no longer the hunter, but the hunted. 
> 
> So much for wanting the simple life, am I right?
> 
> (Fel can be a bit dense sometimes. Just going to point that out now.)
> 
> Moral of the story: To catch a wolf is easy. To tame a wolf is a real battle of wills. To raise two girls in a city full of thieves and heartbreakers, now that is a father's worst nightmare.
> 
> No wonder Felnore went grey at twenty-five. It's the stress. I honestly pity any young bucks who dare come knocking on Felnore's door. I really do. 
> 
> They don't stand a chance.
> 
> Felnore doesn't have a shotgun. Felnore doesn't need a shotgun. Felnore is the shotgun.
> 
> Go Dads of Skyrim! Warrior Dork Dads FTW!
> 
> ***UPDATE: I recently had the privilege of meeting Felnore's face claim and it was beyond surreal. He IS Felnore, down to the down-to-earth Dad vibes, the mannerisms, the deep gravelly growl, a stare that would cause a dragon to nope out of a fight and the majestic silver mane of magnificence. AND THAT EPIC BEARD! I kid you not, Ulfric Stormcloak would weep in envy. Needless to say the inspiration behind this story has launched itself into the stratosphere. Buckle up folks because this is going to be freaking intense. 
> 
> So grab a plate of sweet rolls, pour some spiced wine, get cozy, and enjoy the story.
> 
> Happy Reading!

**  
** Main Character Cast List

 **Felnore Greymane, Son of Ferin Greymane**  
The Grey Wolf of the Rift  
Werewolf/ Blacksmith / Nord  
Age: 44  
Actor: Ron Jack Foley

 **Brynjolf**  
Prince of Thieves / Nord  
Age: 39  
Actor: Josh Hartnett

 **** **Jenassa**  
Sword-For-Hire / Dunmer  
Age: 259  
Actress: Zoe Saldana

 **Eva Greymane**  
Daughter / Nord  
Age: 11 and a half  
Actress: Kiernan Shipka

 **Jonna Assaria-Greymane**  
Adopted Daughter / Imperial  
Age: 15  
Actress: Piper Curda

 **Aturos Vasfa**  
Squire / Redguard  
Age: 16  
Actor: Suraj Sharma

 **Raido**  
Felnore's War Horse / Sassiest Horse in Skyrim  
Actor: John Cena

 

The Thieves Guild Crew Cast List

**Mercer Frey**  
Leader of the Thieves Guild / Nord  
Age: 53  
Actor: Jerome Flynn

 **Delvin Mallory**  
Guild Master-At-Arms / Champion Mead Drinker / Nord  
Age: 40  
Actor: Jason Statham

 **Vex**  
Professional Thief / ???  
Age: She'll never tell  
Actor: Charlize Theron

 **Tonilla**  
Professional Thief / Guild Fence / Redguard  
Age: 20  
Actor: Letitia Wright

 **Sapphire**  
Professional Thief / Nord  
Age: 29  
Actor: Katie McGrath

 **Cynric Endell**  
Professional Thief / Jail Breaker / Breton  
Age: 42  
Actor: Jemaine Clement 

 **Niruin**  
Professional Thief / Master Archer / Bosmer  
Age: 55  
Actor: Tommy Flanagan

 **Rune**  
Professional Thief / Guild Cinnamon Roll / Imperial   
Age: 35  
Actor: Lin-Manuel Miranda 

 **Thrynn**  
Professional Thief / Reformed Bandit / Nord  
Age: 40  
Actor: Jensen Ackles

 **Vipir the Fleet**  
Professional Thief / Master PickPocket / Nord  
Age: 22  
Actor: Cole Sprouse

 **Vekel the Man**  
Barkeep of the Ragged Flagon / Nord-Bosmer  
Age: 40  
Actor: Taika Waititi

 **Dirge**  
Bouncer of the Ragged Flagon / Nord  
Age: 58  
Actor: Adam Baldwin

 **Karliah**  
Nightingale / Former Thief / Dunmer  
Age: 197  
Actor: Deepika Padukone

 **Galathil**  
The Face Sculptor / Bosmer  
Age: Unknown  
Actor: Helen Mirren


	2. The Prologue

There was no profit in crime anymore.

The high-detail jobs that had once marked the notorious Thieves Guild as a powerhouse organization throughout the Nine Holds was now just a thing of the past. Picking pockets for a few meager coins had become the sad reality for those who struggled to remain loyal to the art of the shadows.

What Brynjolf would not give for a decent mark!

His princely talents were being wasted on these paltry night runs. These pittance jobs were for the grunts, the lowest ranking members of the Guild, not for someone with his set of skills and life-long experience. He had once single-handedly charmed the gemstones off the throats of six highborn ladies during a mid-winters feast, a feat so daring, so bold that it had spawned a string of ballads that were still sung in taverns to that day.

He, the Green-Eyed Charmer that made other men nervous to be around, least they lose their gold without them knowing. He was the uncatchable Fox in the Night, the one that mothers warned their daughters about whenever a shadow graced their doorsteps.

He was Brynjolf. The Prince of Thieves, not the wastrel of waste.

But that had been before the Guild’s luck had turned sour and the money dried up.

Now he was forced to make due with a few tarnished candlesticks and perhaps a bit of Argonian craftsmanship plucked from an unguarded strongbox.

Bloody friggin’ candlesticks.

Blast whatever fates that had cursed them so!

Somehow their luck would change. It had to. A string of bad luck this awful could not hold out forever. He truly believed things would turn around. He knew, deep in the very marrow of his bones, that better times were on the distant horizon.

Because of this he had been called many things, daft as a draugr being a favourite, especially when he decided that the Guild should recruit some new blood. An infusion of fresh enthusiasm could help bolster their dismal moral and ruffle a few local feathers in the process.

The Guild Master had not taken to the idea at first but eventually Brynjolf wore him down until he saw reason. After all, what could it hurt?

A few days under his keen eye had a motley group of hopefuls narrowed down to one individual. A scrappy Imperial whelp who looked like he had not seen a decent meal since he was in short pants. Lean, lithe, and light on his feet he had the perfect make-up for a Tom Cat, someone who could slip into those hard-to-enter places that required the utmost silence and care.

Brynjolf's intuition had proven true and he was more than pleased to discover that his fledgling thief had a natural talent for the locks.

The heavy antiquated tumblers on the old prisoner storage chests in the Riften Jail had given way like melted butter under a hot knife.

They made off like bandits, untold years worth of long forgotten belongings tucked away in leather pouches that muffled the contents and reduced any chance of them being detected. It had been easy enough to slip past the guards, who had drunk more than their allotted share of the local Blackbriar mead. All that was left was to split up and meet back at the Guild's headquarters deep within the bowels of the city's sewers.

Brynjolf had taken to the rooftops and used the cover of the new moon to pad his way across the shingled buildings with the lightest tread. It had been so long since a job had gone his way that he allowed himself the rare privilege to enjoy the moment.

How he missed this!

That elevated feeling of success was as heady as any finely aged wine. Not something to be indulged in often and only done so under the cover and protection of darkness. But there would finally be something to celebrate upon his return.

That alone with worth the stolen gold he harboured in his pockets.

On an quiet exhale Brynjolf made the jump from one rooftop to another. The wood barely protested as he landed cat-like on his hands and feet. He paused, low to the roof, when the distinctive tread of hobnailed boots caught his attention.

City guards, five of them, and they were right below him.

He laid himself flat and counted the footsteps. By the sound of it, each guard was heavily armed and was no doubt searching for something. Or someone.

Brynjolf did not bother to harken a guess as to who or why.

He had hoped for more time but there was no cause of alarm. He had factored in the possibility of an early discovery of the missing items during the pre-job briefing. His recruit knew exactly what to do in this situation.

Stay silent. Stay low. Blend into the very black heart of the shadows.

Do not move. Do not breathe. Do not panic. Wait for the trouble to move past.

_Thwang!_

_Thunk!_

The taste of victory turned rancid in his mouth the tell-tale thwack of a bowstring whispered in the night. The arrow had hit its intended target dead on.

Brynjolf closed his eyes as the somber splash of a body hitting the canal waters echoed off the wooden houses. The boy had not uttered a sound and met his end like a true professional. His secrets, and those of the Guild, would travel with him to the dark depths of the afterlife.

_By the grace of the Goddess not another one._

Yet, the eternal Night Mistress did not concern herself with the whims and wishes of the disgraced. For all anyone knew, the luck of the Thieves Guild had finally run out.

How long would it be then until Brynjolf met his end in some dark back-alley on a moonless night? Caught, like a fox in a trap.

Maybe Delvin, the Guild's Master-at-Arms, was right after all.

Maybe they were all well and truly cursed?

Nocturnal help them, because if that were the case no one else would.


	3. Unfortunate Son

Faster. He had to run faster.

The boy heaved a deep gasp of air as his lungs burned against the rising pressure in his narrow chest. The tall grass would not keep him hidden for long as he tried to put as much distance between himself and his would-be captor.

He would not be sent back to that awful place. He would run to the ends of Skyrim itself if he had to but he would not go back. They could not force him.

Summoning the strength to push himself onward, the boy scrabbled over a fallen tree as the deep neigh of a horse sounded out in the distance. The man with the axe was getting closer. If only that summoning ritual had never been preformed.

"Aventus!"

The boy flinched at the sound of his name as he frantically looked about for cover. If he could hide himself then he might have a chance of being overlooked in the undergrowth. But there was nothing...

No wait! There!

Aventus took in another deep breath before he bolted toward a large rocky outcrop a hundred yards to his left. He did not look over his shoulder as the heavy drumming of hoof beats startled a flock of starlings into taking flight. A young fox kit barked in alarm before it vanished into the dry leaves with a swish of its bushy tail.

"AVENTUS! STOP!"

Another neigh bellowed out into the crisp morning air, more annoyed than the last. Aventus knew that what he had done was bad. Worse than bad. He had broken all the rules by performing the Black Sacrament, a forbidden act of death and black magic that had landed him in a world of trouble. And now he had to pay the price.

The boy's thin figure worked to his advantage as he scrambled behind a large moss-covered boulder and wormed his way between the rocks.

All he had wanted was to summon the Dark Brotherhood to help him achieve what he could not do on his own. He needed a monster to fight a monster and the Dark Brotherhood were the type that did not care about killing. They were the best assassins in all of Skyrim. All they cared about was blood and money. Money was something he did have and he could promise them blood.

But everything had gone wrong.

When the Jarl of Windhelm had issued the order that Aventus was to be sent back to that horrible orphanage in Riften it was said that the city was no place for an orphaned boy. But Aventus was determined to prove them wrong. He could survive on his own. If only the adults would listen for once instead of barking orders because they "knew what was best".

But who would listen to a child?

Aventus may be only twelve years old but even so, he knew by now that adults had absolutely no idea what was actually best for children. Because if they had, the order would have been given to burn the Honorhall orphanage to the ground a long time ago.

They had left him with no other choice but to go beyond the law. He reached out into the darkness and after weeks of waiting, it finally responded.

When the grey-haired stranger had turned up at his home two nights ago he completely ignored the summons. Aventus had done his best to explain himself, explain why he so desperately needed the Dark Brotherhood's help, but it had all been in vain. Not even the family treasure that he offered as payment could tempt the man in the wolf armour to side with his cause and accept the contract.

Instead Aventus had been dragged out of his family home against his will and tossed onto the back of a horse. He had fought back as hard as he could but he was no match for his abductor, who had not come alone. No one had seen them leave the city in the dead of night. That had been days ago. He had no idea if anyone had noticed that he was missing or had started looking for him.

Aventus Aratino was being hauled back to Riften and he would have none of it.

He waited and watched. That morning just before daybreak the perfect opportunity to give his captors the slip presented itself and he took it. Now he just had to make sure that they would not be able to find him.

"Child! Show yourself! This is no time for playing games."

A second voice called out, feminine yet harsh, as another rider joined the chase. It was the dark-skinned elf lady, the grey-haired warrior's companion, and she did not sound happy.

"AVENTUS!"

"Quit hollering like a wounded elk you great lummox. You'll have every marauding band of cutthroats in the forest coming to find out what all the fuss is about. And I am in no mood to fight off bandits today. Not until I've given that brat a good hiding."

Aventus ducked down and crawled toward a wide opening in the side of the rock mound that he had not seen earlier. He did his best to move as quietly as possible. The elf lady meant what she said.

"That boy is going to get himself killed out here."

"Then let him. As far as I am concerned he is worth more to us dead than alive. And hardly half the effort."

"Jenassa, you have the maternal instincts of a frostbite spider."

"Why thank you."

Two large horses snorted in unison as their hooves churned up the carpet of silver and gold birch leaves that littered the forest floor. The riders were close, close enough for Aventus to hear the jangling of bridles and the solid chomping of massive horse teeth against the steel bits.

"Where did he go?"

"Why are you asking me? You're the tracker. If you've managed to loose the boy already I would say that you were losing your touch. What's the matter? Catch a cold?"

Aventus heard the armoured fighter growl and he sounded just like one of those large war dogs that the Stormcloack soldiers from back home always travelled with. The ones that could kill a bear if they were angry enough.

"Head toward the river. The current is too strong for him to try to cross it on his own. See if you can cut him off before he does something stupid."

"You underestimate that child Felnore. He truly despises you. I would not put it past him to try to kill himself. At least it would make our lives easier."

"Jenassa, just do it."

"Fine. But this is going to cost you extra Greymane. I did not sign on to watch your back only to play nursemaid to an orphan. And a penniless one at that!"

A swift kick, a click of teeth and the rider Jenassa galloped off toward the tell-tale sound of rushing water. A curious whicker came from the remaining horse as it dragged a steel shod hoof against ground.

"I know boy. He's around here somewhere. I can smell him."

The horse's leather harness creaked as it shook itself before slowly trotting toward the base of the rocky outcrop. Aventus kept his head down and rolled the rest of the way through the opening and into what looked to be a fair-sized cave. If he could hide himself well there would be no way for either of the riders to even suspect that he was up there.

A deep-throated rumbled rippled through the air as something very large and very annoyed uttered a snort of surprise from within the shadows. Aventus looked up.

Two small deep-set amber eyes stared down at him from behind an incredibly large brown-furred muzzle. A large black nose twitched in curiosity, a curiousness that quickly became aggressive.

Oh no.

Without realizing it, Aventus had accidentally tumbled into the den of a cave bear. One that seemed to have woken up from its long winter's slumber. Aventus did not have time to scream for help as the massive brown bear lumbered toward him on stiff legs, its hot rancid breath pelting him in the face as it towered over him.

There was nowhere to hide. Not from those teeth and wickedly sharp claws that filled his vision.

Something whistled sharply over Aventus just as heavy "thunk" filled the cave like a thunderclap. The bear let loose an enraged roar that rattled the very nerves in Aventus' spine before a huge heavy paw slammed down on him with such force that it knocked the wind out of his lungs. The yell that had been trapped in his chest escaped with a startled whoosh as those long finger-like claws pressed into the red fabric of his tunic. Aventus was trapped under the bear's weight, pinned helplessly to the ground, and knew that death had just marked him for its own.

But the bear did not tear him apart like a buttered trout.

Instead the huge animal slumped onto its side with a dying groan. Its eyes were wide open and stared directly at him. He saw the light in them fade when the bear let out a final breath and grew still.

"H-...hel..."

It was impossible to form words with the weight of the bear's huge forepaw planted directly onto his stomach. He could not breathe much less call for help. He tried to summon the courage to lift the bear's forepaw off himself but his arms refused to obey. Shock had begun to set in and all he could do was lie there as a warm trickle travelled down his leg.

Another large paw, this one clad in heavy armor and thick leather, reached into the cave and grabbed the shaken boy by the shoulder. Aventus cried out in fear as he was hauled bodily into the air and held there, hanging from the hand of the large armored warrior whose expression was as equally terrifying as the cave bear's growl.

"Next time boy," the grey-haired warrior gave Aventus a solid shake that rattled his back teeth, "I will leave you for the bear to feast on. Is that understood?"

The thunderous look in the man's eyes brooked no argument. Had Aventus been thinking straight he would have recognized the same dangerous amber gleam that he had seen in the bears gaze.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Aventus knew better than to stay quiet.

"Y-yes s-sir."

Those calculating eyes blinked twice before the intensity in them dimmed. The man shifted his gaze to the rest of Aventus to make sure that the boy was still in one piece. Satisfied that he was not missing any limbs the warrior, Felnore, loosened his grip and dropped Aventus in an unceremonious heap at his feet.

"Whatever fool's errand possessed you to run off like that ends here. You were lucky I was close by. Next time I won't be."

Taking care not to strike his head against the cave's low overhang, the warrior ducked inside and grabbed hold of the leather braided handle of his ebony throwing axe. The force that went into that killing throw was incredible in order to sink the blade deep enough to cleave through the bear's thick skull. The axe had wedged in deep and refused to be moved until a heavy booted foot was planted on the bear's board shoulder and the weapon was wrenched free.

Aventus flinched at the sound of the bear's scrambled brain matter spilling out onto the ground. The bloodied axe was lifted to the light and carefully inspected. Other than being covered in gore and tufts of brown fur it had not compromised its deadly edge when it struck home. The thick coopery tang of the bear's blood made Aventus gag but it did not seem to affect Felnore in the slightest. Instead of avoiding the smell, the warrior inhaled deeply and stilled, head tilted slightly in concentration.

A sound, a short snarl that was more canine than human, escaped the man before he caught himself.

"Boy, come here."

Aventus picked himself up on trembling legs and for the first time in days did what he was told. Careful not to touch the bear, he stepped over its outstretched forepaws and edged as close to the armored figure as he dared to get. A moment passed before Felnore lowered the axe and wiped the blade across the bear's fur. Whatever thoughts of escape that Aventus may have harbored vanished entirely when the axe slid home into its leather loop at Felnore's waist. He was in trouble, deep trouble.

"Tell me, from one orphan to another, what would you do?"

Aventus looked up at Felnore in confusion. He did not understand what the warrior meant by that. A rough bark-like cry made him jump. Tucked behind the massive bulk of the fallen bear, at the far end of the den, was a small bundle of rich walnut fur. Two ink-black eyes blinked into existence as the fuzzy head of a baby bear came into view. The little creature was shivering with fright at the unexpected arrival of the strange smelling creatures that had intruded into its small world. The cub could not not have been older than two months and was too young by far to have ever left the safety of the cave.

Felnore raised his left leg and unsheathed a large stag-hilted hunting knife from its hidden sheath in his leg-guard. He eyed the blade before he handed it, handle first, to Aventus.

"Huh?"

Aventus stared at the knife.

Felnore said nothing. He waited for the full realization of what happened to sink in. And it did.

"No! No you can't!"

Felnore took the boy by the arm and placed the knife in his hand. Even though Aventus was tall for his age the hunting knife looked ridiculously large in his grasp. It was the tool of a seasoned warrior, someone who lived and died by the blade, not a child who had no real understanding of the consequences of his actions.

"I won't. But you will."

Felnore growled out the words before he crossed his arms over his chest.

"What!"

Aventus stared at the folded steel and worn antler handle.

"Since you are so eager to have someone murdered, then it's about time you had an innocent's blood on your hands. One who cannot fight back."

"It's just...but...it's just a baby. I-I can't hurt it. I won't."

The bear cub mewled in longing as it rolled onto its oversized footpads and waddled over to its mother's side.

"You already have. The moment you stepped into this cave. A place you had absolutely no business in being near."

"But I didn't mean for this to happen!"

Felnore cut him off with a stern look.

"But it did. Now you have a choice that only you can make. That cub's fate was sealed the moment you decided to run. Without its mother's protection and care there is no chance it will survive the season. There are no orphanages in the wild."

Aventus winched at the choice of words.

"Can't I raise him?"

Felnore arched a dark eyebrow.

"What do you know of the ways of the wild Aventus? You have spent your entire life within the comforts of a city. This cub is a wild animal, a predator, not a pet. It would be a cruelness to raise it among men, men who would not hesitate to kill it the moment it outgrew the confines of its cage and mount its head on their wall."

The cub butted its mother with its snout, bewildered. It knew something was wrong but could not figure out why its mother would not respond. Upset at being ignored the little bear uttered a loud cry of protest before it began to suck on one of its back paws for comfort.

"It is too young to survive on its own. Will you spare it with that knife, or leave it here to die? If its lucky, a pack of wolves will pick up the scent in a few days and come to investigate the kill before it starves to death. The choice is yours Aventus."

Aventus could not tear his gaze from the cub as it whimpered to itself. He swallowed as a hard lump suddenly formed in his throat. The knife grew heavy in his hands and when he made up his mind, he dropped it. There were tears in his eyes. He shook his head and bolted out of the cave.

Felnore did not stop the boy nor did he call him back. He watched him go and sighed deeply. Aventus was not his son. It was not his responsibility nor place to teach him the hard lessons that every boy needed to learn from their fathers at his age. Felnore had to remind himself of this yet again as he bent over and picked up his knife. One day that boy would wield a knife similar to his without giving it a second thought but today he was just a child, a scared little boy lost in a confusing world of uncertainties.

Underneath that gruff imposing persona that had so easily frightened Aventus, Felnore had a pang of remorse for the lad. However there was a schedule to keep and a lesson to teach, as harsh as it was.

The taking of a life was not something to be judged lightly. Death was not a game. The results were permanent. It was something the boy needed to learn and should have been taught to him by his father, had the man still been alive.

To try to summon the Dark Brotherhood of all things in order to have a person murdered did not sit well with Felnore. The boy needed to face the resulting consequences of his actions however unpleasant they might be.

The knife was returned to its sheath before Felnore crouched down and gently lifted the bear cub off the ground. The little bear bawled in outrage at being held, fragile claws flexed in defense.

"Easy there little one."

Felnore cradled the young cub against the fur lined steel of his breastplate and stroked its back with calm measured caresses as he would a fussing infant. His youngest daughter had been a colicky baby who had done nothing but cry day in and day out for a solid six months when she was born. Patience, persistence, and significant loss of sleep had resulted in Felnore developing a magic touch that could sooth even the most difficult of babes.

A flat paw swatted at his face but there was no force behind the action. Tiny claws caught hold of his beard and held on with a firm determination. This little fellow was a fighter to the end. A cave bear through and through. The cub growled as it squirmed against the foreign feel of the armor. Felnore tucked in his chin and huffed a breath directly into the cub's face.

The cub blinked in surprise and snorted back in response.

A bear's greeting from one to another.

Felnore began to hum a tune low in his throat, almost bear-like in pitch, and the sound vibrated through his chest. Words were of no use but the tone of his voice and the gentle strokes along its fur soon produced a sense of calm that quieted the cub. It gave a distressed yawn before it burrowed its round face into the crook of his arm. Moving with the upmost care, Felnore fondled the bear's little ears before his fingers cradled the base of its skull. A soft croon came from the warm ball of fur as it took hold of a mouthful of wolf fur at his elbow and began to suck on it. On the exhale Felnore snapped the cubs neck, quickly and painlessly, with an expert jerk of his wrist.

"There you are now."

The small limp body was placed next to its mother and the two were left undisturbed as he exited the den. A pounding sensation had begun to take up residence behind his eyes. That was never a good sign.

Felnore closed his eyes and counted down from ten in his head before he inhaled sharply and slowly exhaled. He needed to cut off the rising knot of tension before it reached his teeth. He could not afford to slip free of the collar of self-control that allowed him to keep a firm hold on his voracious appetites.

He had done enough damage for one day.

Aventus stood below at the base of the natural rock formation in the shadow of two large war horses. Jenassa, the dark elf clad from head to heel in full elven armour, watched Felnore with cold expressionless eyes as he picked his way toward them from boulder to boulder. For a Nord armed to the teeth in fur and steel he somehow managed to move easily where lesser men would have misstepped and cracked their skulls on the rocks.

"Pity." She sneered at Aventus as her horse, a well-proportioned bay mare with a thick white blaze down its face, danced to the side when Felnore approached. "He should have let the bear finish you off."

Aventus shrank back from her words which spurred a stinging laugh from the woman. Her horse snorted when Felnore got too close for comfort and pinned its ears back in warning.

_She's right you know. The kid is bear bait._

The large heavy head of Felnore's mount butted against his breastplate as the woolly iron grey stallion shoved Felnore back a few steps with a well-placed nudge. The war horse was built tall, solid, and thick across the chest and hindquarters. A long dark mane and tail accented the heavy white feathering that curtained his massive hooves. Raido was the equine equivalent of a one rider battering ram on four hooves that could easily uproot a tree to get at the apples if he wanted to. It was a unique talent that had made an enemy out of many a disgruntled farmer over the years.

"Don't you start." Felnore grumbled under his breath as his horse swished his long tail with enough force to tag Aventus in the back of the head.

_No skin off my nose Wolf but you might want to chuck him into the nearest pond. He reeks of fear and that is not something that is getting up on my back. And don't bother with Helgath, she dislikes the both of you, for obvious reasons._

Felnore glanced at Jenassa's horse and the mare squealed when they locked eyes. That mare had it in for Felnore and it was all Jenassa's doing. Of course the Dunmer would own a foul-tempered horse trained to attack anything that carried the touch of the beast on it.

It would seem that getting wet was now on the To-Do list for the morning. Well fine then. Maybe the shock of the winter run-off would be enough to quiet the throbbing in his head.

"How far are we from the city?"

Jenassa glanced skyward and noted the position of the sun overhead.

"A good half days ride of we keep a good pace and don't stop for distractions. We should be squared and settled before the evening crowd heads for the nearest tavern. I am looking forward to enjoying a pint or three by a roaring fire tonight. You're buying of course."

"Right then. We will leave in an hour. Find the nearest clearing and break out the rations. No fire."

"What? What ever for?"

"I reek of bear and I'm hungry."

"Oh please. You've smelt of far worse and you are always hungry. That is no excuse."

Felnore did not bother to respond to Jenassa's jabbing remark as he grabbed hold of Raido's reigns and handed them up to her. The war horse bobbed his head in mirth and shoved his nose into Felnore's neck. The warrior shoved the whiskered muzzle aside as the stallion lipped at a long strand of his hair that had worked its way free from one of the braids that kept his mane out of his face.

"Quit it."

_Heh, make me._

"The boy and I will meet up with you. Make sure you keep this idiot out of the saddlebags. Come Aventus."

Felnore motioned for Aventus to follow him as he stalked off toward the river in the direction that Jenassa had taken earlier. Surprised at being addressed Aventus tagged along at a sedated pace with a hangdog expression that shadowed every step. It was as plain as day to see how the death of the bear cub affected him. He tried to be discreet about it as he rubbed the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.

"Were are we going?"

Aventus was afraid of what the answer might be.

"Swimming."

"But I don't know how to swim."

Felnore looked over his shoulder.

"Today you learn."


	4. Riften City

Honorhall orphanage was a large building, built with enough room to make the experience comfortable for those who called it home. Constructed from solid aged timbers imported from beyond The Reach, the structure was long-lived and, more importantly, safe.

At least that is how it appeared from the outside. What went on behind closed doors was a far different beast.

If walls could speak, the tales this building could tell were heinous enough to foul the most miserable of days.

Felnore glanced skyward and grimaced at the nauseous mixture that assaulted his nose. The brackish backwaters of the canal stunk of rotting fish and other refuse dumped into it by the people who called this cesspit of a city home. He was thankful that the days still held the lingering bite of late winter. Had it been the height of the summer months, there would have been no way that he could have entered the city. His overdeveloped sense of smell put him at a severe disadvantage when surrounded by so many unwashed bodies and enclosed buildings.

The cloying stink that clung to the hodgepodge network of buildings was potent enough to trigger one of those splitting headaches that had the power to blind him with pain for hours if he was not careful.

Ugh. What he would not give for a stiff breeze or better yet, a raging north eastern.

Vendors in the main market had begun to pack up and close their stalls for the day. An early evening in looked to be in order, which suited the people of Riften just fine as there had not been much in the way of prosperity of late.

No new clients, same old merchandise, too few gold septims. It was the same story across the Nine Holds.

The civil strife brewing between the Empire and the rebellious Stormcloaks had affected the once flourishing trade routes that linked the old cities. With the caravans no longer coming up from the South as often as they used to, people had to tighten their belts in these lean times.

With their minds focused on the possibility of a hot meal and deep tankard, no one paid the grey-haired traveler any attention. For that, Felnore was thankful. After what he had just witnessed, he could do with a good feed and a potent brew. No doubt that was something Jenassa had already banked on.

Clever snarky stab-happy wench.

That pointy-eared woman was as deadly as a pit viper with her blades and no stranger to holding her own at a table. Felnore appreciated that in a travel companion. He hated to eat alone and highly valued a person who could keep up with him. Azura bless that dark elf.

Letting out a tired sigh, Felnore adjusted the fur-lined hood of his cloak over his thick mane of hair so that it shadowed his face. The plain set of traveling clothes he wore allowed him to blend in with the general populace. Weapons were expertly concealed and did nothing to attract unwanted attention.

Anything large and flashy, like his armor and axes, had been left at one of the outlying farmsteads, along with Raido and Helgath. The farmer and his wife had been more than eager to stable the horses for the night after Felnore gave them a handful of coins. Half up front and the rest once he was ready to leave.

The city stables were located too close to the main gates for his liking. Discretion was something both he and Jenassa favoured in times like these, so the less questions he had to answer the better it was for everyone. It was one thing to carry a dagger at his waist and another matter entirely to have a two-handed battle axe strapped across his shoulders.

However, the guards stationed at the city’s north gate had no qualms about grilling the trio for an exorbitant amount of coin to enter Riften.

It had been a real pleasure to put them both on their backsides with sore heads and bruised egos to show for their troubles. Next time they would think twice about threatening seemingly unarmed travelers and children.

And to call him an old man? That earned them a black eye each.

As far as he was concerned, he had always looked older than his years. His father’s people were well-known for going grey early on, so much so it had become their surname and mark of familial pride. Felnore’s hair had gone silver during the winter of his twenty-fifth year and he never thought twice about it.

But to call him Grandsire as an insult? That warranted a severe lesson in manners. One that he was always more than happy to deliver.

Felnore smiled as he cracked the stiffness out of the knuckles of his right hand.

Through the wooden walls behind him, Felnore could make out the excited voices of children as they peppered Aventus with a barrage of questions now that he was back. Where had he gone? Had he done what he set out to do? Who was the big scary man?

It was the sound of jovial innocence. Something that Honorhall had not experienced for a very long time.

Felnore hunched forward as he headed across the wooden walkway toward the tallest of the surrounding wooden structures. Jenassa had agreed to meet him at the _Bee and Barb_ tavern and would secure them beds for the night. Despite the pungent stink of the city, Felnore was in no mood to ride out into an unknown landscape in the dark. Not so close to a full moon.

The wild stories that Aventus had told him, of how horrible it was at the orphanage, had not been lies. That hag of a woman, Grelog the Kind, was one of the most sadistic and cold-hearted people he had ever encountered. Felnore had decapitated vampires who had more compassion for their kills then that woman had for those children.

It was not Felnore’s place to butt into someone’s personal affairs. After all, what did he know about running an orphanage? But the way she mistreated those in her care. It made his teeth ache to even think of it.

Under his breath, Felnore gave a low dangerous growl.

How could such a vile creature have been allowed to care of another living soul when hers was blacker than pitch? How had this been allowed to go on for so long? Why had no one done anything to stop the abuse beforehand?

It had been more than just abuse. Far more vile things had gone on behind closed doors.

He had smelt it the moment he stepped into the building. Lingering death mixed with the rancid stink of prolonged suffering and fear. It was the same scent that was embedded in every dank dungeon cell that he had ever had the privilege of being thrown into.

Another man would have left well enough alone. But not Felnore. Not when children were at risk.

Always a parent first, a blacksmith second, and a warrior third. That was the way of it.

He tracked the smell to a small storage closet located at the far end of the children’s sleeping quarters. Inside, he had discovered a row of rusted iron manacles bolted to the wall. Shackles that were small enough to fit a child’s slender wrist.

Felnore’s jaw clenched at the memory. At least three children had died in that foul space, isolated in darkness, over a period of what smelt like several years. One set of cuffs still carried Aventus’ personal signature of fear.

That hell-bitch of a Headmistress had harmed her last ward.

Word would get around sooner rather than later that old Grelod had met with an unfortunate accident. Tripped down some stairs and broke her neck on the way down. Something like that could happen to anyone, if they are not being careful.

The Kind Woman’s reign of terror had finally come to an end.

“Spare a septim for an old woman?”

Felnore paused as a withered arm reached out from a bundle of filthy rags. The claw-like hand that pawed at the hem of his cloak was liver spotted and twisted with age.

“Would you?”

The haggard creature peered up at him from where she sat on the walkway with her narrow back pressed against a stone wall.

Felnore did not reach for the coin pouch that was secured where it could not be easily lifted by wandering hands. Riften was a pit of thieves and the great unwashed of society. It had a reputation to uphold and did so with gusto.

“I’ll do one better by you. Here, let me help you up.”

Felnore bent slightly and offered the beggar his arm.

The woman jerked her hand back as if she had been stung.

“What do you mean by this!”

The mistrust in her voice was sharp where a moment a go it had been soft, almost helpless.

“A septim won’t do you much good in this place. But a warm meal might be a better fit for the evening. I have a feeling that it is going to be a wet one.”

“You would make fun at my expense? Shame on you!”

“I would never misuse you. Gods only know that I have been where you are, and I do know that warm food and good conversation will do more good than a bit of hard gold. That is if you would not mind joining a stranger for dinner.”

The old woman did not know what to think. She shrunk back as she mulled over Felnore’s words and he waited. He meant what he said.

“No one cares about us. We could die, and no-one would ever know. They’d just throw our bodies into the canal and be done with us. No. No I won’t. I don’t want to die.”

The woman shook her head and burrowed back into her patchwork nest of scrap cloth. Her words became garbled as she muttered to herself. It was as if she no longer saw the man who stood beside her.

“I understand.”

Felnore took a quick stock of the emptying marketplace before the clink of coins silenced the muttering.

“If you change your mind, you are more than welcome to join me at the tavern. Please reconsider the offer.”

Four round coins were snatched from his calloused hand as soon as he held them out to her. The old woman gummed one of the gold pieces to make sure it was real. Satisfied, she did something Felnore did not expect. She patted his boot with an odd sort of affection.

“You stay away from the Underneath. Nothing but death and darkness to be found down there. Bad luck. Ill luck. You be a good lad, not like them. Listen to old Edda now. I know these things. Seen them with my own eyes. I tell you now, you best beware the Smiling One. He’s the worst of the lot. He’ll trick you, lead you on a merry dance straight to the grave. Promise you a kingly ransom and snatch your very soul. Leave this city. That’s a fine thing.”

Message delivered, Edda gave him a toothless grin before she retreated into her protective nest with the four coins clutched to her chest.

The Underneath? Smiling one?

Well then.

Felnore followed the path of least resistance and cut through the marketplace. One or two locals remained near the stalls to discuss the rising price of goods while the rest wandered off to various ports of call. An Argonian jeweler was busy counting out his meager profits while a man in a fine set of clothes finished packing up crates of bottled snake oil.

With his hood pulled low, Felnore did not see a dark-clad figure materialize from the shadows behind the orphanage nor did he notice when a set of calculating green eyes watched him enter the local watering hole.

“This’ll do nicely.”

The man in the well-tailored outfit regarded the heavy wooden doors before he smiled. His words were woven with a touch of a southern brogue that did not fit with the atmosphere of the city. Whatever plans he had in mind for the evening were quickly altered.

Having a drink or two after a profitable day’s work at pushing the semi-miraculous bottles of Wisp Essence, a cure-all for the ages, sounded like a fine thing. A very fine thing indeed.


	5. An Unlikely Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Skyrim, there is never a dull moment is there?
> 
> Felnore and the Prince of Thieves meet face to face for the first time and it certainly doesn't pan out as expected. Brynjolf, you really are a little stinker. And on the first date? Ugh! Oh, Fel is going to be so very pissed when he finally realizes what happened. And as we know, a pissed off werewolf is a fun to play with werewolf.

"Honestly Felnore, I have no idea how you manage it."

Felnore looked up from the hand-scrawled pages that he had been trying to decipher in the tavern's dim lighting.

"Manage what?"

"To surprise me. It has been close to a year since we met and still you somehow force me to reevaluate our relationship."

The dark elf shook her head as another round of drinks circulated to their table. This had been going on for hours and she had drank her fair share of the tavern's local speciality to make herself quite comfortable. Felnore on the other hand accepted the fresh tankard with a nod of thanks before his eyes settled on his mercenary companion.

"How so?"

"There are some days when you get on my last nerve and I would love nothing more than to leave your miserable carcass to the wolves and make off with every last septim you own. And then there are days when I wouldn't trade our adventures for all the jewels in Tamriel. How is it that you make me feel both young and old at the same time?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he sat back in his chair and shrugged.

"Maybe it's because you are old Jenassa but you won't admit it. My antics keep you inspired. With me around you never know from one day to the next if you are going to have to kill someone or run for your life."

"A bold statement for a blacksmith."

"I'm more than just a blacksmith."

"And I am not old. I happen to be the perfect age for my kind thank you very much."

"And that would be...antique?"

A portion of a half-eaten sweet roll was thrown at him from across the table.

"You Nords may be raised in barns with the livestock but that is no excuse for poor manners. You know that it is never polite to mock a lady in the prime of her life."

Felnore laughed.

"You're about as much a lady as I am. The day I see you in dresses and combs is the day I hang up my axe, shave the beard, and join a priesthood."

"A hot day in Skyrim then."

"I'll drink to that. May it never stop snowing in the North."

Felnore saluted Jenassa with his raised tankard before he polished off most of its contents in three hearty swallows.

"Keep going as you are and there won't be a drop left in this place by morning."

"Is that a challenge then?"

"No. An observation."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely."

Felnore chuckled as he wiped a line of foam from his upper lip and motioned to the barkeep, an Argonian woman with a permanent scowl fixed on her face, to bring over yet another round. It was pretty clear that she was of the same mindset as Jenassa. Her grumbling could be heard from where they sat next to a wall at the far end of the dining area.

"I don't think the tavern madam is too please with us."

"Why should she be? You ate enough to choke a horse without a single gold piece to show for it."

"Three horses actually. And don't you worry, the tab will be squared away by the time we leave. We're good for it."

"Well make sure you save enough coin for tomorrow. We're running low on supplies and need to restock for the journey back to Whiterun. And the horses need to be dealt with. Helgath is going to need new shoes sooner rather than later but I will leave that in your capable hands once we return home. With the way you go through provisions we will probably end up having to hunt for our supper regardless. But unlike you, I prefer to eat my meat cooked. So consider that before you order any more rounds tonight."

"Always so serious Jenassa."

"One of us has to be the adult in this relationship. It would seem that burden falls to me."

The sour expression on Jenassa's distinctively tattooed face earned another laugh from Felnore. They both knew how untrue that statement was.

"If you say so."

Felnore downed the remaining contents of his tankard while Jenassa allowed the smallest of smiles to make a fleeting appearance.

He may be a big hairy lug of a man but despite everything that they had been through in the time that they had known one another, Felnore had kept his sense of humour. It was enough to make her laugh on occasion and Jenassa was cut from a far different cloth. Laughter was for the weak, feeble-minded, and lazy. Three things she certainly was not.

"Well, I will call it a night. You may have the need to stay up until all hours but I happen to enjoy finding solace in sleep. Just don't start singing again. No one wants to wake up to drunken war ballads at three in the morning."

Felnore raised his eyebrows in mock innocence but said nothing.

"I mean it Greymane, keep at lid on it this time. If we end up on the streets again I will be charging you double my usual rate from hereon in. Understand?"

Felnore placed a hand over his heart and heaved a wounded sigh.

"You're the boss."

"Oh shove it."

Felnore grinned as Jenassa stood and stalked past, making sure to give him a solid smack upside the head for his cheeky efforts. Ah that woman. Never could take an honest joke.

The remaining bit of sweet roll that had bounced off his chest found its way into his mouth as he returned to the yellowed pages laid out before him. The slim brown leather volume had been an unexpected surprise on Jenassa's behalf. She was one of the few people still living that knew of his deeply rooted love of literature. Wherever he went, there was always a book or two to be found.  


This new addition was called "Of Crossed Daggers: The History of Riften". An interesting place this Riften city. Burned to the ground by an angry mob when all was said and done. And then the people rebuilt it out of wood. Had they not realized that if could happen once then destruction by blazing inferno could very well happen again?

"Mind if I join you for a spell lad?"

Lad?

Felnore tilted his gaze upward to the figure that stood before him, two fresh tankards in his hands.

"It's never fun to drink alone, especially when there's good conversation to be had."

Felnore said nothing as he eyed the stranger who stood there with a ready smile that touched his eyes. Outwardly there was nothing menacing in the way the man presented himself. A tailored suit of fine clothes hung across a frame that was no stranger to a hard days labour. Well off by the look of him and he knew it too. It showed in the way he carried himself.

Vivid green eyes. Long auburn hair. A well-trimmed goatee that showcased a strong-jawline and solid chin. There was a pitted scar across his left cheek that told a story. One that Felnore could not decipher from where he sat. There was an easy confidence in this man's bearing that made Felnore instantly suspicious. This man either knew something or was hiding something.  
Where had Felnore seen him before?

"Like what you see do you? Do I pass the test or am I to stand here all evening while you wonder if I'm hiding a dagger up my sleeve?"

Felnore blinked as the stranger kicked out the chair that Jenassa had vacated and promptly sat himself down, placing the tankards on the table as he did so.

"There now, that's better. So, what brings you and and your lady friend to our fine city? Is it business or maybe pleasure?"

One of the tankards was slid across the pitted and scarred tabletop while Felnore tracked the hand that moved toward him. There was no dagger up that sleeve but that did not mean the man was not armed.

"Just passing through."

The easy-going feeling that he had been enjoying all night was gone and replaced with a rising need for caution. It was usually Jenassa who took on the role of suspicious bodyguard and without her Felnore suddenly felt exposed.

He did not like this feeling.

"Is that so? You know, they say that there's a war going on across the holds. Some sort of uprising against the Empire I believe. Nords against Imperials?"

"Is that what they say?"

"Aye lad, and that's why we don't often get people of your talents coming into town anymore. It's a happy day to finally see some fresh blood in this old place."

Felnore pinned the man with a look that could have nailed a fly to the wall. The man responded with a clever wink before he propped an arm on the table and took drink.

"My talents?"

Felnore fought to keep the rising growl out of his voice as he closed his book and straightened in his seat.

"Aye. You know, putting the iron to the forge. The old hammer and anvil routine. Bending metal to your will. I'm sure there's more to it but you get the picture."

"How did you know I was a blacksmith?"

"You really shouldn't let a good brew go to waste. It's not like this stuff grows on trees."

To emphasis his point the green-eyed man tipped his own tankard back. He motioned for Felnore to join him but Felnore ignored the drink in front of him. Instead all of his focus was on the person who's clever questions made the hairs along his neck bristle in warning.

"A smith. What gave it away?"

"You really want to know?"

"Try me."

"All right. I'll tell you."

The man quickly glanced around to make sure that they did not have any unwanted ears listening in on the conversation. He beckoned Felnore to lean in closer before he placed both hands on the table and lowered his voice.

"I overheard you and the elf lady talking. You were rather loud."

A straight face could only be held for so long before one of them gave in. The stranger's eyes danced with merriment before a grin appeared that ran from ear to ear. A snort escaped unexpectedly before he rocked back in the chair with a raucous bark of laughter that nearly tipped him over. He hand to grab hold of the tabletop in order to steady himself.

"How else do you think? That I'm a bloody magician? Ha!"

Felnore shook his head at his own heightened suspicions. He did not trust the person who had managed to find a chink in his armour, so to speak, but there was no need to be a guard dog about it.

"Fine, you got me there."

"Relax friend. You see, it's my trade. I'm what you call a salesman of sorts. I have the ability to size up a client, any client mind you, and know exactly who they are and what it is that they truly need. It's a gift. So, when I saw you from over by the bar I said to myself, now that's a man who knows his way around a forge."

"Some gift."

Felnore grumbled in agreement as he finally picked up the tankard and gave the man a small nod of thanks.

"I can promise you one thing. I am never wrong about people."

"Really? Never?"

Now that was something that Felnore did not buy for a second.

"Aye. Never."

A moment passed before the two men locked eyes, saluted one another, and drank in silence. The nervous energy that had clung to Felnore's back like a set of talons slowly began to give way as the sweet foreign taste of his drink caught him by surprise. Heady with a undercurrent of spice and honey mixed with a rich medley of berries.

Before Felnore could ask the stranger spoke up, reading his mind.

"Now that my friend is what we here in Riften call "the good stuff". Black-Brair Reserve, small batch brews and very hard to come buy if you don't know the right people. That aftertaste is the juniper berries mixing with red currents imported from some secret far-off exotic location. Even I don't know what exactly goes into the making of this decadent elixir but there's nothing else quite like it in all of Skyrim. What do you think?"

Felnore ran is tongue over his teeth as the aforementioned aftertaste clung to his pallet. There certainly was something there, a hidden kick that slowly warmed his throat all the way down. He could not put his finger on it but it he was certain that it was not something that he can tasted before. 

"It's always better on the second go. This time wait a moment before you swallow. Let the honey warm on your tongue."

Who was Felnore to argue with that logic?

The second time around was better. Stronger too. The third time was the charm. Felnore cleared his throat as the warmth began to spread from his stomach, up his chest and into his shoulder. The man grinned behind his drink as the vigilant tension that kept Felnore on his guard visibly began to ease out of his posture.

"You could drink that cow swill that Keerava sells all day and you would get more of an ache in your head from drinking pond water. With this stuff however, a little goes a long way. Name's Brynjolf by the way. Let me be the first to welcome you to Riften city, home of the ne'er-do-wells and dregs of society."

"Brynjolf? Just...Brynjolf?"

"Aye, just Brynjolf. And you are? Wait, let me crack a guess. Blacksmith. Grey hair. The elf lady mentioned something about Whiterun earlier so that must make you...a Greymane?"

"You're good, for an eavesdropper."

"The best actually. But I didn't quite catch your first name."

"You can call me Greymane then. Until you figure it out."

"A challenge is it? Oh, I dearly love a good test of wits. What shall we wager then?"

The possibility of parrying minds made Brynjolf sit up in earnest. It had been too long since he had a good wager going for something that could not be tainted by the misfortune of the guild.

Felnore shrugged as he took a deep pull of the mead and let the taste wash over his senses.

"Gold?"

Brynjolf flicked the idea away with a swipe of his hand.

"No. Too common. This requires something sweeter. Something you cannot get with coin. Let me think."

Both men stroked their beards in thought simultaneously without realizing that they mirrored each other.

"Ah, I know. A secret."

That made Felnore pause. A secret? What kind of secret?

"Not just any secret though. A truth, hidden from the world and kept close to the chest. We all have those so don't bother denying the terms. Yes, that would do nicely."

"So you're saying that if you can guess my name...in twenty-four hours...I have to tell you a truth about me that no one else knows?"

"Precisely."

The light in Brynjolf's eyes danced with excitement, one that was not shared in the least bit by Felnore.

"And if you don't?"

"Then I will tell you one. A secret truth that no one else knows. I swear it on...who should we...ah, of course. We'll swear it on Sanguine, the hedonistic prince of debauchery and sinners. That's rather fitting don't you think?"

Felnore did not know what to think. Or that he should be thinking. For some strange reason this sounded like something he was going to regret agreeing to after the fact but right now it felt right. Wait, who was Sanguine again? 

"Agreed. I swear it on Sanguine."

"As do I. Here's to self-self-indulgence and good times! May the luckiest man win."

Brynjolf and and Felnore clinked their tankards and downed the dregs to bind their wager.

Felnore smiled as the sweeping sensation of relaxation seeped into his neck and hit the sweet spot. His eyes rolled back in relief as everything loosened wonderfully.

The base of his skull was a mess of pinched nerves and tensions knots that added to the pressure that often built up in his head.

Ever since that night in the Underforge, when the Circle of the Companions inducted him into their rank, the headaches had started and grown worse over the span of twelve months. This was the first night where Felnore did not have the urge to crack his neck to gain some relief.

Now if he could just rest his eyes for a minute this bet was as good as won.

Felnore's beard touched his chest as his head began to droop. 

"Hmmm, tonight's the kind of night where a crackling fire and a warm bed calls your name...the sound of the rain on the rooftop to lull you to the realm of dreams. Nothing to worry about for a change, just peace and quiet and warmth. So easy to just give into its pull and let everything...just drift off..."

Brynjolf carefully removed the empty tankard from Felnore's loosened grip when he was sure that his words had done their work. There wasn't so much as a drop of mead left in Felnore's pint. 

Well then, this should make things easy.

Brynjolf lowered his voice to a throaty whisper. He had to be sure.

"Can I ask you something Greymane?"

He grew concerned when Felnore's head jerked up at the sound of his name. 

"Hmm? Whats'it...what...?"

"How many times did old Grelog fall down the stairs exactly?"

Felnore stirred from the intoxicated stupor that had him enveloped in its warmth. Something about that question clawed at the back of his mind but the feeling did not last long. Not with the rolling lit of Brynjolf's voice murmuring in his ear in a way that made him groan. 

The reaction did not go unnoticed.

"Don't you worry now lad. Your secret is safe with me. In all honesty, you did the city a service. That old hatchet-face bitch should have been killed off ages ago. What she's done to those children is unforgivable. So I thank you for that."

"No...idea..."

Felnore could not see straight. The illusive pull of sleep that had avoided him for so many nights was finally dragging him down and he gave in to its beckons. It had been so long since the moon did not hold sway over his nights. So long since he did not wake up with his heart in his throat and the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.

Sleep. That was all he needed.

Brynjolf was at Felnore's side when he finally dropped like a stone. Brynjolf caught him as he slid off the chair, saving his head from meeting the wooden floorboards with a hard knock. 

"Easy does it. Keerava will have my hide if I leave you lying here all night and I've got plans for you yet."

The sleeping potion that he had mixed into the drink was potent enough to knock out a giant. Brynjolf knew this for a fact and Felnore had downed the lot without too much coaxing. However the thief had not expected the blacksmith to hold out for as long as he had while the effects took hold. Most just passed out after the first few sips. The fact that the man could still form words by the end was surprising to say the least.

"Keerava my love, has the room been paid for?"

Brynjolf called out to the disgruntled innkeeper who visibly bristled at his choice of words. The Argonian woman was all lizard and teeth and no softness so the gesture she gave him was hardly ladylike but he expected that. How many times had they gone through this old fall and fleece routine? Knock them out, rob them blind, make it seem like it was all a dream. She always received a cut of the pinched profits so there was little she could do now but complain about it.

At least this way there was never any blood left staining her floors by morning's light.

"Upstairs, second door to the left. And be quiet about it. Don't need that Dunmer woman waking up and asking questions."

"Aye then. We'll be as quiet as temple mice. Go get Talen-Jei. It's going to take two of us to get this one up the stairs without waking the whole place."

Brynjolf flashed her his winning smile while she hissed something in response. There was no sense putting on a tiff about it. Things had to be done and swiftly if they were going to be successful. Timing was always the key in any heist job.

"And you my bearded friend are not going to remember any of this by morning. Well, most of it. Haven't quite worked out all the kinks yet. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about the headache."

Brynjolf struggled under the deadweight as he braced his arm around Felnore's shoulders and half-lifted the unconscious man off the floor.

"Ooff, how many muscles does a blacksmith need? There's more to you under those clothes than you let on. I'd bet my last coin on it."

"What's the matter Brynjolf. Caught one that's too big for you to handle?"

The hissed remark belonged to another Argonian, this one dark scaled and prickly looking. Keerava's main squeeze was never one to be trifled with and as much as Brynjolf would enjoy slinging a few barbed observations at the man he had more important things to deal with. Mainly trying to get his mark set and settled before the whole place woke up and discovered what he was up to.

"You know me Talen-Jei, I like 'em big. Makes things interesting. Get his other arm. We'll carry him up between us."

With the two of them working in unison they managed to maneuver Felnore up a steep set of wooden stairs and into the small single occupant room that had been set aside for just this purpose.

"Make it quick Brynjolf. Keerava wants you gone before the guards begin their night rounds again."

Brynjolf took a second to catch his breath before he nodded in agreement.

"Don't worry. This won't take long."

With that he quietly closed the door once the Argonian left and locked it from the inside. Turning to face the unconscious figure sprawled across the narrow bed Brynjolf blew a strand of hair out of his eyes and took stock of the situation.

"Right then, where do we begin?"


	6. Night Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (rubs temples)
> 
> Just when I think I have this story figured out Stinker McGee over here throws a monkey-wrench into the mechanics and everything goes sideways. Honestly, someone is really going to get it when Fel gets back on his feet. The poor guy just wants to go home and see his kids. But no. Things can't be that easy. I hope you're happy Brynjolf. I really do. Because this is all going to come back to haunt you in the not so distant future. 
> 
> Oy, thieves. Give them an inch of creativity and they take over the whole bloody story.

"You know Greymane, some other time, some other place, this night could have ended quite differently."

The master thief muttered under his breath as his experienced hands made quick work of the thick hand-tooled leather belt that had been the first item to catch his eye. The darkened holly and hare embossed filigree that was etched into the tanned elk hide was beautiful. The metal accents were all hand-forged from pewter mixed with just enough steel that the cold would not corrupt them over time. The belt-buckle though, that would certainly fetch a lovely bit of coin. One-of-a-kind by the look at it, heavy too, a statement piece for sure.

"Not the usual symbol of a smith."

Brynjolf brought the piece close to his nose in order to study the craftsmanship. The wolf head buckle wasn't one of those snarling effigies that adventurers and swords-for-hire usually favoured. This one was more regal. The eyes were not precious stones, but small moonstone spheres polished to a high shine. The somber profile of the piece made him think of an old wolf past its prime that held the wisdom of the ages behind those reflective eyes.

"This was not made for you. Someone gave you this. A master craftsman's work, Nord by the design, but its far older than you and I. I wonder."

Brynjolf turned the buckle over and traced the faint grooves of where the head was attached to the belt leather. It was the maker's mark but too worn down by age to make out. No matter, Brynjolf mentally calculated a rough estimate of potential cost both belt and buckle could bring in and he knew of a buyer who would enjoy adding a piece like this to their personal collection.

"This will certainly go to a good home. But these, now these I might just keep for myself."

The two daggers that were laid out on the small table beside him had peaked his interest the moment he discovered them secreted away on Felnore's prone form. The larger of the two blades was an intricate combination of both ebony and silver elements, forged together with precision and some serious skill. Not too fancy to be useless but the weight and balance the blade had made it perfect for throwing or fighting. This one had been tucked away at the small of Felnore's back, cleverly hidden under the folds of his clothing.

The other was its mate in design but made a good few inches shorter. This one Brynjolf had found hidden in a special sleeve on the inside of Felnore's right boot. It was clear that the smaller of the two was used for more personal measures. Brynjolf ran the pad of his index finger along the sharpened edge and was pleased with its hairline edge.

How many throats had been cut with this little beauty?

"You are a man of many elements Greymane. There's more to you than you let on."

Brynjolf sheathed both blades and tucked them into his own belt for safe keeping as he gathered up the piles of coins that he had counted out earlier. A small stack was scooped up and placed into a leather pouch. That would go to Keerava to appease her unpleasant temper and ensure her silence. The rest would go into the Guild's coffers. The gods knew how desperately a small windfall like this would tide them over. There was enough here to keep them in bread for a few days at least.

Now all he had to see to were the last few touches and then he would be off without so much as a whisper to mark his passing. Most of it had already been taken care of. Brynjolf was a professional of the highest standards and he never allowed a job to go sloppy. There was an art to pulling off a heist like this. Clothing had to be carefully arranged around the room to make it look like they had been removed in a drunken haze. Every little detail, from the way the boots lay on the floor to the chair knocked over onto its side from being tripped over came together to tell a likely story.

After having fallen far too deep into his cups Felnore had staggered up to the room and blindly undressed before falling in a heap on the bed, dead to the world. The headache that would greet him once he woke would cement that reality. By the time he managed to collect his scattered wits and tried to figure out what happened Brynjolf would be nothing more than a blurred fragment of a memory. The missing items and lost gold could be blamed on being simply misplaced or gambled off in a fictional game of chance. Keerava would fill in the final details if confronted in the morning. As to which storyline she would use would be up to her. They had five lined up that fitted perfectly with their scheme without anyone being wiser for it.

Now for that final stroke of believability.

Brynjolf picked up a cup of ale, half-filled with the usual watered-down concoction the tavern owner reserved for unwary travellers, and silently padded over to the side of the bed. He took a moment to take in the sight that was laid out in front of him and all he could do was shake his head at the lost opportunity. Brynjolf was hardly ever wrong about people. The figure stretched out on the bed was what he had expected, if not a little extra where it counted.

What was the phrase Delvin had once used to describe the local city blacksmith?

Ah yes. Built like a brick shithouse. Only this silver-haired lover of the written word was more refined in the structure department. Brynjolf had to appreciate how everything came together to make the man. He always admired a solid frame and well-toned limbs. Not to mention a nice firm backside.

He had his vices like any man. He was not ashamed to admit that he liked what he liked. And the half-naked view of pale skin and glorious hair was something he probably would never grow tired of.

"I get the feeling that we could have had a very interesting time together. And yet, here we are. I must say that it has been a pleasurable evening, and a very lucrative one."

His words were spoken hardly above the faintest whisper as he reached over and carefully arranged the long strands of hair away from Felnore's face. A finger curled around a thick lock that was streaked through with strands of black and tucked it gently behind his ear.

What's this?

Brynjolf's sharp eyes missed nothing.

A silver layer of fine hair covered the back of Felnore's ear. What made Brynjolf pause was not the fact that the man had more hair on his entire body than most people he knew, but that this felt different. It was soft and uniform. Almost like the velvet fur of a dog's ear.

Fur? Couldn't be.

Those calculating green eyes narrowed as his gaze raked across Felnore's bare back. The marks that crisscrossed those solid shoulders were suddenly worth a brief investigation. There were the usual scars that came with the adventuring trade. Nicks, depressions, a few old burn marks that looked like they could have been received back when Felnore was still learning the art of the forge. There was one scar, a long ugly looking line of white that raked down Felnore's right side, that looked interesting. It was recent, not older than eight months. The way the scar tissue was raised made it seem like someone had been trying to carve a blade into his ribs with great force.

That was not a scar someone would receive while wearing a full set of armor. The blade must have gone in deep and dragged along the ribcage with serious pressure behind it. A night ambush perhaps? An unexpected clash at close quarters? An attempted murder gone wrong?

Brynjolf's fingers traced the top notch of the scar with a featherlight touch to assess what weapon could have left such a mark when a violent shudder ran through Felnore's unconscious frame. Brynjolf stilled, etched from stone as the minutes passed, until he was convinced that the man was still under the spell of the sleeping draught.

Well then. That was different.

His marks usually went still and silent for hours, lost in the deepest sleep of their lives. That allowed him the time to go to task without having to worry about them waking up halfway through the job. His blacksmith was proving to be a man full of surprises tonight.

And they just kept on coming.

Felnore uttered a groan as he rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, his breathing even and deep. Brynjolf's heart may or may not have leapt into his throat as he whipped his arm up just in time.

How was this possible? This should not be happening. It could not be happening. The amount of potion that he had laced the mead with would have any man down for the count for nearly a day.

Brynjolf swallowed hard as he took a cautious step back. He should just leave now and make do with what he had collected. There really was no need to finish undressing the man and removing the rings that needed to be expertly worked over the thick joints of Felnore's fingers. Fingers that belonged to hands that looked like they had the strength to crush a man's skull with little effort.

"Get a hold of yourself man."

Brynjolf hissed at himself for the panicked thoughts that raced through his mind. He was a thief dammit, one of the best in Skyrim, and he was not leaving that room until every last item of value he could collect was stashed in his pockets. Enough of this nervous nelly routine. He was a professional, not a flatfoot for Nocturnal's sake! Less gawking and more working.

The leather breeches would have to wait. The rings were more important. He would start with the wedding band first.

With the cup in one hand Brynjolf slowly poured a small amount of ale onto the fourth finger of Felnore's left hand. The liquid acted as a lubricant as he carefully twisted and coaxed the thick band of silver and gold off the finger joint. He judged by the dull sheen and thick white strip of skin under the band that the ring had never been removed from its post for a number of years.

There were a few nail-biting minutes, but it was all said and done without any issue. Brynjolf was just that good. He looked the ring over to check for any hairline fractures. There was some slight scarring on the ring's surface but nothing structural. This piece clearly held a deep significance to Felnore. It was almost a pity that it would have to be melted down and remade into something that could be sold without being traced.

The ring on the right hand, now that was a piece he could not wait to get a closer look at. He had caught a glimpse of it when he first sat down at Felnore's table, but the tavern hall had been dimly lit and he had made it a point to keep his gaze trained on the man whose trust he needed to win over. Eyeballing the ring would have given away his intentions from the start.

Brynjolf dipped the tips of his fingers into the cup before he placed it on the floorboards and padded around the bed. He would have to go about this with extreme care. He crouched down so that his weight settled against his heels. At this vantage point he could carry out his task without being in any sight lines, should the worst happen. Not that it would but he could never be too careful.

There was a faint scar that trailed across the back of Felnore's hand, but it was faded with age. The ring however was older yet. Judging by the design, it was more than just old. It was positively ancient.

There was a hitch in Brynjolf's breath as he cautiously raised Felnore's wrist with two fingers and eyed the ring from the front. A grinning wolf's head with small pointed ears and a snubbed muzzle. There was a basic whirl pattered etched into the rest of the band, nothing fancy. Certainly not Dwemer or Altmer or any of the elven races for that matter. Argonian craftsmanship was too precise and Bretons rarely used primitive wolf designs in their work. Could be Orc but the edging of the teeth wasn't right.

The metal must be a jeweller's mix because he could not tell of its precise nature. Not silver, not steel, perhaps of hybrid blend of brass and pewter?

There was something off-putting by the wolf leering profile. Brynjolf's brow furrowed as he dipped his fingers into the ale cup once more before he placed his thumb and forefinger against either side of the ring. A jolt raced through him as his gut twisted in warning. The ring was touched with darkness. It had to be. Brynjolf had a sixth sense when it came to handling magical and enchanted objects, but this bit of metal was neither. It was something much more powerful and its power came from a dangerous source.

He instantly released his hold and dropped Felnore's hand as he shook out his own to get rid of the tingling that numbed his fingers. The last time that had happened was a few years back when he had taken on a job to recover an old ring for one of the Guild's silent partners. It had seemed harmless enough. Had he known that it was actually a Daedric artifact he was being sent to retrieve he never would have taken the job. He would have made sure that none of the Guild members had as well.

It was one thing to be in the debt of Nocturnal but to get on the bad side of the rest of the Daedric Princes was a death sentence that he could very well do without.

Why would a blacksmith possess such an object?

That was an answer that he would have to ferret out another day because just then he was reminded of how dangerous his line of work really was in a way that made his skin prickle in fear.

He felt it before he heard it. The low tone came from Felnore's chest in the form of a deep rumbling growl had more in common with a rising storm than it did with a sleeping man. Brynjolf's eyebrows rose in alarm. Something lurked behind those closed eyes, eyes that thankfully remained shut despite the verbal warning.

Brynjolf got the message. Whatever connection Felnore had with that ring was his business and Brynjolf was not about to come in the middle of it. The ring would remain where it was and he would be the happier for it.

"I think that's enough for one night."

But there was one last thing he had to do.

One second thought, the location of the breeches was not not that crucial in the overall scheme. He had done enough, seen enough, and was ready to call it in. It was better to cut his losses at a gain than take a chance at getting more than just growled at.

"Pleasant dreams."

Brynjolf picked up the ale cup and upended the remaining contents onto the floor, using the toe of his boot to widen the puddle so that it would not pool between the cracks. The empty cup was left next to it in the tell-tale sign of a mislaid nightcap.

That's when he saw them. Hidden under the thick dusting of silver and black chest hair he could just made out the outline of five long scars that raked across his chest from left to right. Brynjolf stood and held his hand over the marks to get the measure of them. He had to stretch out his fingers to try to match the spacing between each pitted line.

What manner of beast had caused those marks? A bear? A troll? How could a man survive a mauling like that?

That answer and others would have to be puzzled out another time. Instinct told Brynjolf that his window of opportunity was about to close and he did not wait around to see it shut. With Felnore's money and personal effects squirrelled away, Brynjolf silently unlocked the door and slipped out of the room like a shadow. A real thief-in-the-night routine that he had perfected until it had become his second nature.

Brynjolf did not see Felnore shift in his sleep once more. Had he turned around before the door closed he would have caught the thin gleam of burning amber that peered at him from between a slightly opened eye.


	7. Helping Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that snarky Dark Elf. 
> 
> This is a short chapter that showcases the Felnore/Jenassa dynamic. She will never openly admit to anything that might cast her in a somewhat caring light. But underneath that prickly exterior and scathing mindset she might just have a soft spot for the man who she could call friend. Not that she has any of those because what mercenary worth their skill would ever stoop so low as to form an emotional attachment? Clearly this is all business. 
> 
> He pays her, she keeps him alive, he continues to give her more money, she makes sure he doesn't do anything stupid to compromise their agreement. And when something stupid does happen, she's the one who has to clean up the mess. Quite literally at times. Just wait until she finds out the identity of the thief who took the money. Money she considers to be hers by default. If Felnore doesn't eat him, she most certainly will. (rubs hands together gleefully)

_Felnore!_

_Felnore can you hear me?_

_So help me you better have been murdered or else I'll...by the god's good grace Fel will you wake up!_

**SMACK!**

_WAKE UP!_

Felnore's eyes cracked open and, in that moment, he wished he was dead.

The pain that lanced through his brain was beyond blinding. Someone had wedged a pickaxe firmly between his eyes and his body revolted against the sudden onslaught of agony that coursed through his system.

Pain. He knew pain. This was not pain. This was torture.

"Dammit man! Never do that to me!"

Jenassa's cold eyes widened slightly in alarm when Felnore let out a keening moan that was borderline animalistic before he slammed his head into the wooden bedpost hard enough to draw blood.

"Felnore! Stop! You idiot, you'll make it worse!"

Jenassa was no stranger to the sometimes volatile mood swings that plagued the man in the days leading up to a full moon. She had seen first-hand the effects that one of his blinding headaches could produce when not caught early and seen to immediately. More than once Jenassa had to switch her sword for a cold compress and see him through the worst of it. What he would do without her she did not know but right then she did not want to find out.

"Getitout...getitout...arrrrrghgetitout!"

It was impossible to make out what Felnore was trying to say but the meaning behind his mumbling was clear.

This was a bad one.

"Oh, for Azura's sake you're bleeding everywhere. Will you hold still so I can help?"

Jenassa's reflexes saved Felnore's skull from sporting another goose egg as her hands settled on either side of his head. She held him as still as she could as she gauged how severe the split in his scalp was. Headwounds, no matter how minor, always bled like a waterfall and made a mess of everything. This one was nothing to worry about thankfully.

She felt his entire body flinch at her touch, but she gave no quarter as the tips of her fingers settled firmly along the base of his skull and pushed hard on the neck muscles until she fingered the nervous pulse point. Felnore jerked back but she held on, determined to work the tell-tale tension knot out of his neck.

It would not solve the problem but at least she could grant him some relief before she had to find whatever amounted to a decent healer in this poor excuse of city. That is if he would just lie still for a minute and let her do what was needed.

"Don't fight me Felnore. You will lose every time."

The expected growled response never came.

Jenassa gritted her teeth as she was dragged off her feet and onto the narrow bed when Felnore tried to break free of her grip. She refused to let go and the pressure she applied to his neck increased. She had it and now all she had to do was...

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!!!"

Felnore's scream made her sensitive ears ring as she dug the pad of her thumbs into the knot and held it down with serious force. He bucked and writhed but Jenassa was more than capable of keeping her balance, especially since his hands were wrapped tight around her wrists with enough force to bruise bone. Or snap them like sticks if he really wanted to.

"Felnore...I swear I will tie you to this bed if you keep this up! I know you can hear me. Hold. Still. You. Stupid. Man!"

It took time but eventually the tension knot loosened and finally gave way. A shuddering gasp shook them both as Jenassa eased the ache from the pressure point using a slow circular motion until Felnore stopped fighting her.

"How is it now?"

Felnore whimpered.

"Just kill me."

Jenassa scowled as she ran her fingers through his hair and pulled it all back into a loose top knot so that she could get a proper look at him. She did not like what she saw.

"Fel, you look like shit. Worse than shit. Come on, up you get. That's it."

She had to help him sit up against the rough wooden headboard because in this state he was utterly useless. Almost helpless. The headaches always took a serious toll on him, physically and mentally. She was not sure which part would be the most affected by this unwelcomed surprise, so she had to gauge the best she could.

Felnore's complexion was the colour of old hearth ash and the dark bruises under his eyes aged him by ten years. He kept his eyes shut tight and his teeth set against the methodic thrumming in his head. It was all he could do to breathe and speak without passing out.

"What happened last night?"

"I-I don't remember."

"Don't, won't, or can't?"

"All of it."

"It'll come back to you. How much did you end up drinking?"

"This...this isn't because of that."

"No?"

"Something else...too strong to be a..."

"I've seen you hung over plenty of times. I know what you mean. No, you're right. This is something else. You got into something you shouldn't have. Or something got into you."

Jenassa had known something was seriously wrong the moment she entered the room and saw Felnore passed out on the bed wearing only his breeches. Felnore never slept for more than a few hours at best and always woke with the dawn. Never, in all the months that she had known him, had he ever slept past the breakfast hour or in his clothes when indoors. Drunk or sober Felnore always slept like a bear in the woods, in his fur and nothing else.

It was a Nord thing. He had explained it to her once, but she did not care to listen to the specifics.

There was a sinking feeling that settled in her stomach as she studied Felnore before her attention focused in on the details. The room was a mess, with clothes and furniture scattered about. His belt was missing, and she knew from experience that it would not have been the only thing to vanish under mysterious circumstances.

"Were you in here with anyone last night? Can you remember what they looked like?"

Felnore swallowed hard as he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and held them there.

"No. Don't think so."

"What about after I left you. Did you speak to anyone?"

"Mmmmm...maybe? Can't remember."

Maybe was good enough.

Felnore dug his fingers into his scalp. It was when his knuckles tightened that Jenassa saw it.

A white stripe of skin where his wedding band should have been.

"Oh no."

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing Felnore, it's nothing. Just stay here and don't move. I'm going to see if I can track down a healer."

"Don't bother. They won't be able to do anything."

"Well, a potion maker then. They must have something that will help because I am not wasting an entire day being your nursemaid while you mope about and bellyache like a child. The sooner we are out of this wretched place and back on the road the better off we'll both be. Agreed?"

"Mmph."

"Where did you hide the gold? Potions cost septims and who knows how high they will have jacked up the prices."

"Boots."

An old soldier's trick, keeping most of the wealth hidden where no one would ever think to look for it. Jenassa hunted down his heavy well-worn boots and turned them over. Nothing.

"In the heel Jen."

Felnore only called her that when it hurt for him to speak.

"Right."

She stuck her hand into the right boot and felt around until she found the thin piece of leather tucked along the heel. The inner sole pulled back to reveal a hidden compartment the same shape and size of the boot-heel. It was empty. She said nothing as she checked the left boot and made a similar discovery.

"The rest you have in your belt, correct?"

"Mmph."

Well this was a fine pickle they were in.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. For now, just keep your head elevated and stay as you are. Here, this will stop the bleeding."

"Mmph."

"Honestly, you men are useless when you're sick. You are more than capable and willing to charge across a battlefield to hack and slash each other to pieces but the moment you catch so much as a chill it's all moan and groan. How you Nords ever took Skyrim will forever remain a mystery to me."

"Mmph."

With her dagger drawn Jenassa made short work of a thin blanket as she cut strips out of the green handwoven cloth. She folded a piece and pressed it firmly against the bloody gash before she wrapped a longer strip around his head. She made sure that his eyes were kept covered so that the light from the few lit candles in the room would not aggravate the pain.

"Do not touch anything. Do not move. Understand? I will knock when I return."

Felnore lifted his right hand and she gave it a quick squeeze to let him know she meant what she said. He was done talking. If she was able to somehow come by the elixirs she needed, then this could all be sorted out in a few hours. If not, then she was going to have to think of something else because if the headache escalated back to full force Felnore could end up being incapacitated for days.

They did not have days.

The full moon was set to rise in two nights time. She had to make sure they were far enough away from any major settlements when it did.

Jenassa did not sheath her dagger when she left Felnore's room. She tucked the curved blade up her sleeve as she headed down the set of wooden stairs and entered the main floor of the tavern. It was still early enough that the chairs were stacked on top of the tables while the floors were being swept. The tavern owner was nowhere to be found but the other Argonian proprietor was busy sweeping last night's refuse out the back door.

"Pardon me, but could I trouble you for a jug of water?"

Talen-Jei turned to greet Jenassa when his eyes crossed in surprise. The deadly point of her dagger hovered an inch away from his nostrils the broom was wrenched out of his hands and tossed aside.

"Move and you die. You are going to tell me everything that I want to know about what happened last night, in great detail, because if I feel that you are lying or leaving anything out I will cut out your tongue and make your scaly lady friend eat it before I skin her alive and turn her miserable hide into a new pair of boots while you watch. I promise you I am a woman of my word. Do you understand me you useless reptile? Blink once for yes."

The Argonian remained frozen to the spot as several possible scenarios ran through his head at lightning speed. When he did not do as she asked, Jenassa pressed the dagger tip against the scales of his snout until a trickle of blood oozed down the blade.

"I am so looking forward to those new boots."

Talen-Jei blinked hard.

Keerava may have had a working agreement with the Thieves Guild but Talen-Jei was never party to the deal. He held no remorse for the possible outcome of his actions as he told Jenassa everything she wanted to know. And then some.


	8. Bitter Pill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! It's a special double chapter week with a surprise. Look! It's Mjoll the Lioness! Hi Mjoll. 
> 
> I had no idea she was going to show up in this story and I'm interested to see where this is going to go. The next few chapters are going to be very busy and somewhat chaotic as the ball starts rolling. Much excitement to be had.
> 
> While writing this chapter and plotting out the next three, I realized something. If Felnore had a spirit animal, it would not be a wolf. Or a dragon. Or a bear. It would be the biggest, hairiest goof of a St. Bernard you will ever meet. Ever seen videos of Berners around babies and little kids? That's Fel. However, piss him off or threaten his family, he will turn into Cujo and eat people, armour and all.
> 
> It is now my mission to sneak in as many "ugh, Felnore" lines into this fic as possible. Mwahahaha! Enjoy.

"I swear I never had a single grey hair in my life until I met him. Look at me know. This is what he does to me. I tell you, I do not get paid enough for my services."

Jenassa exclaimed somewhat bitterly as she pushed open the door to the Bee and Barb tavern with her shoulder while the heavily armoured figure behind her chuckled in agreement.

"That is the way with most men. They promise us the world and and the moon but soon enough we end up becoming like mothers to them. Yet they will never admit that without us, nothing would ever be accomplished."

"Agreed!"

Jenassa motioned for the tall fair-haired Nord woman to follow as she negotiated her way between the tables. Her hair-trigger temper had been stretched to its last grounding thread since she left to hunt down a potion maker. After an hour of negotiating her way through the wooden rat maze that was the city, Jenassa finally located the alchemy shop known as Elgrim's Exlirs in the very heart of the canal way. It was run by a husband and wife duo and neither were of any use. The back and forth bickering along with the misdiagnosis by the old alchemist had wasted more time than she was willing to give.

And the prices! Highway robbery was a more honourable professional than the racket these two were operating. Since Riften only had one able-bodied alchemist there was no competition for the much needed potions and ingredients it provided.

The gold that Jenassa had coerced out of Talen-Jei with her dagger had barely covered half the cost of the set of small glass vials that she desperately needed.

Had it not been for the divine intervention of the battle-hardened maven that moved in her wake, those dithering old fools would have sniped their last insult.

They had no idea how lucky they were.

The woman had introduced herself as Mjoll the Lioness, the city's protector of sorts. In a show of kindness and good faith toward a travelling stranger in need she had fronted the rest of the gold to cover the alchemist's exorbitant asking price.

The elven mercenary had begun to truly hate this city. She could not wait for the moment when she could scrape the city's muck from her boots and be done with this place for good.

"Tell your shadow to stay here. I can promise you that he won't be welcomed by my employer. I'm sure he will manage to survive being out of your company for a short while."

Jenassa's remark did not go unnoticed by said shadow, a well-dress young Imperial with little else going for him. He had kept to the Nord woman's heels like a well-trained dog throughout the entire encounter and refused to leave his post not matter how fiercely Jenassa glared.

The young man bristled at the dark elf before he turned to the warrior.

"Mjoll, I do not approve of that woman's tone! She can't speak to me like that nor can she command me to leave your side. How do I know if this...stranger is telling the truth? She could be in league with the Guild. This could very well be one of their clever traps. I don't trust her Mjoll, and neither should you."

"Excuse us."

Mjoll the Lioness gave her young companion a firm pat on the shoulder before she guided him toward an empty seat by the bar.

"Aerin, have a drink. This is women's business. I am sure I will be able to take care of myself. Here, I will be back before you know it."

"But Mjoll..."

"Sit!"

She forced him into the chair and signalled Keerava to pour him a tankard. Before Aerin could voice his doubts any further, Mjoll turned and joined Jenassa by the stairs.

"Do not mind Aerin. He is young but he means well. He cares deeply about the city and its people. His heart is in the right place, even if his feet are not. He truly believes that he is my protector and that he must always shield me from the evil that festers in this place."

Mjoll's mouth twitched as Jenassa eyed the meter long seasoned shaft of the heavy double-headed battle axe that was firmly fixed across her back. It was not the weapon of an amateur. Whereas Aerin carried only a short-sword that was more for show than anything useful.

"I see."

Jenassa hardly believed the Imperial whelp even knew how to wield the weapon properly without hurting himself.

The two women shared a knowing look.

"Men."

Mjoll nodded.

"A necessary burden."

Jenassa gave a toothy smile.

"Speaking of which, come upstairs and meet mine. He needs to hear what you have to say."

"Lead the way."

Mjoll followed Jenassa up the stairs and kept her distance when the dark elf put her ear to a closed door and knocked.

"Felnore, still alive?"

Muffled sounds that would have made delicate ears burn were heard.

"How wonderful. Brace yourself Lioness."

"I can handle a disgruntled Nord."

Jenassa shook her head.

"He's not disgruntled. He's gone feral."

Mjoll arched an eyebrow in question.

"You'll see. Just, no sudden movements."

"This should be interesting."

The latch lifted as the door slowly opened to a darkened room filled with tension that bordered on dangerous. The candles had been extinguished which made it difficult to see the shadow crouched under the table. Jenassa nearly tripped over Felnore when he darted across the floor in a bid for the exit.

"Really Felnore? Next time I'll just leave a pile of straw to make you feel more at home."

Jenassa was quick to relight one of the candles with steady hands. Mjoll remained in the doorway, cautious of the large figure who shrank back from the sudden appearance of the small flame. Her surprise at the scene before her was evident on her face. She had not expected the man who Jenassa had described in great detail to be sequestered on all fours, growling like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

It was the eyes that made her uneasy. They were fever bright and wild with pain. Mjoll had seen those same eyes time and again in the felled animals that her father had hunted. The weight of her axe across her back became a reassuring comfort as she stepped further into the room.

The bandage that Jenassa had doctored had been torn off as soon as she had left and the wound on the back of his head had bled freely until enough blood matted his long hair and formed a hard scab. The rest of him, from what they could see, was covered in shallow scratches and what looked like bite marks. A large bruise had also begun to form on his left shoulder.

"He did this? To himself?"

Felnore bared his teeth at the voice he did not recognize while he searched for an escape route.

"Mjoll, close the door. I am going to need your help. I was gone too long. Daedra take that greedy old fool! These vials better be the real thing or we are going to use that axe of yours to get a refund."

Mjoll did as instructed and shut the door behind her, making sure that the handle was secured.

Felnore sniffed the air, catching her scent.

"Is it always like this?"

Jenassa shrugged as she took stock of the situation at hand. Thankfully Felnore kept his distance as he prowled back onto the bed. He looked every inch the mad man with the bloodied fingertips and wild matted hair. It always disturbed her to see how quickly things could spiral out of control in the span of a few hours.

"Only when the headaches are this bad. It's his mind. Something happens when the pain blinds him. If it goes on for too long he gets like this. Feral as a pit wolf."

"Is there nothing the healers can do?"

"No one can explain it, or fix it, but many have tried. Thankfully strong healing potions seem to be effective. With enough of them, I can set him back to rights. It takes some time but it usually works. The hardest part is trying to get him to take the stuff. Believe me when I say I have tried everything."

Mjoll took a step toward the bed and was greeted with a warning growl as Felnore shifted to face her. She held her ground before she took another step. And then another. The growls continued until Felnore was backed off the bed and wedged in the furthest corner of the room between the foot of the bed and the wall. When his back touched the rough wooden planks the warning growls turned aggressive.

"Don't push him Mjoll."

"I have hunted enough wolves in my time to know how to deal with a caged one. I have an idea. Take up that cloak and use it as a lure. When he lunges for it, I will hold him down and you administer the vials."

Mjoll was all business as she unlatched the large battle-axe from between her shoulders and set the weapon against the wall so that she would be able to move freely without carrying the additional weight. The armour she wore would be more than enough protection against a man who thought himself a wild animal.

"Careful, he bites."

Jenassa did not like the look of those teeth. The canines were too sharp.

Mjoll cracked her knuckles as she shifted into a fighter's stance.

"So do I."

Jenassa snatched up Felnore's discarded travelling cloak and shook it out. The movement caught his attention and the flapping fabric suddenly became his new nemesis. That was all Mjoll needed. When Felnore swiped at the cloak Mjoll went low and barrelled into him. The force of her tackle pinned him to the wall and kept him there as Jenassa leapt onto the bed. Between them they managed to pin his arms and hold fast as the muffled snarls threatened all sorts of painful unpleasantries.

"This is for your own good you half-wit."

Mjoll was not nice about it when she laced three fingers into his hair and reined his head back with a forceful yank. She used her full strength against his size as she kept him expertly locked in an unbreakable choke hold that cut off his circulation. The harder he struggled the tighter she squeezed. Soon enough his resistance began to lag.

"Don't hate me. You did this to yourself."

Jenassa muttered apologetically under her breath as she readied the first two vials. Once they were uncorked she grabbed hold of his beard and wedged open his mouth wide enough to pour the thick mixture down his throat.

Mjoll shifted her arm to allow him room to swallow the foul-smelling concoction before she returned the pressure on his neck. Bracing a knee between his legs, Mjoll forced Felnore off the wall and onto his stomach with all of her weight heaved on his shoulders. If she could control his head long enough to allow the potions to do their work then everything the apothecary had told them would come to pass.

It was a small blessing that they did not have to wait long.

"Get the bucket!"

Mjoll felt the fight leave Felnore the moment the heaving started. Jenassa kicked a wooden bucket into place at the side of the bed when Mjoll finally let go.

Watching a grown man be violently sick was never a pretty sight. Jenassa could not mask the urge to gag as Felnore purged into the bucket. She did have some sympathy for him however and held his hair back until he heaved a fifth and final time.

"Ugh, Felnore."

She grimaced at the smell. Why did this place not believe in installing windows in the guest quarters?

"If it's all out then you can use the other one."

Mjoll readjusted her armour as Jenassa withdrew the third and final vial. This little red glass potion bottle that was no wider than her index finger had to be the most expensive healing potion on the market. It was supposed to cure any and all ailments. Whether or not the crook of a potion brewer had been telling the truth would remain to be seen.

"Nnn-"

Exhausted, bloodied, in pain and utterly spent Felnore slumped onto the floor where he just lay on his side, defeated.

"Watch it!" Mjoll gingerly moved the bucket of sick out of the way so that it would not get knocked over. The last thing anyone wanted to do was clean that mess.

"Honestly Felnore, sometimes I wonder how you ever made it this long."

Despite the dressing down she wanted to give him Jenassa muzzled the urge to let her tongue lash freely. There would be plenty of time for that on the way back to Whiterun. Instead she sat down next to him and cradled his head in her lap.

Oh Felnore.

He was a complete mess.

She did not hesitate to take the bandage wrapping Mjoll handed to her and began cleaning him off.

"Every time Fel. We do this every time. Someday you'll learn to do as your told, you stubborn mule-eared idiot."

Jenassa paused in her fussing to shake the contents of red vial and remove the cork with her teeth. Potions never went down easy with this man but even at his worst Felnore trusted Jenassa to stick to the plan and see him through. So when she held the vial under his nose Felnore did not fight her on it.

"It may taste like rotting fish guts but I promise it will get rid of the pain."

Felnore groaned in response but at least he did not try nip her hand as she tipped the green liquid between his lips. He swallowed hard and grimaced at the taste as the potion combined with the acidic bile that burned his throat. His eyes drifted shut as she took the swatch of cloth and began to dab at a long shallow scratch that trailed down his throat.

As soon as the shivering set in Jenassa breathed a sigh of relief. Felnore was finally on the mend. The intense shaking was always the first sign.

Azura's blessings, the stuff actually worked.

"Is he all right?"

Mjoll grew concerned when the shivering became more pronounced.

"That is the potion at work. He will sweat out whatever is still in his system before everything settles. Hopefully he'll sleep for a bit and then we should be in the clear. When he can stand on his own without seeing double I am going to drown him into the nearest rain barrel."

The Nord warrior chuckled as she straightened up the chair and sat down. The two women eyed the trembling man that Jenassa kept a protective hold on without saying anything. Both were lost in their private thoughts as the moments stretched into minutes.

"Will you be leaving the city then?"

Now wasn't that was the thousand septim question?

"That was the plan but seeing how our finances are currently strapped, that does not seem to be feasible. Unless we sell Felnore's personal weapons arsenal there is no way we are going to be able to pay off what we owe the innkeeper. And after what he did to this room, I expect that cost will go up. There is still the farmer that needs to be paid the rest of the money for stabling our horses. We're looking at, what, five hundred...six hundred septims? Where are we going to find that kind of coin in a day?"

"I could lend you some of the money if that would help."

Mjoll was sincere in her offer but Jenassa batted away the suggestion as generous as it was.

"We cannot take your charity Mjoll. You have already done more than enough for us. I will think of something. There must be some giant around here that needs slaying."

"Even with the medicine, I do not think Felnore will be able to swing a sword so soon."

That was a fair observation.

"What about this Thieves Guild that you were telling me about? The one our Fly-By-Night belongs to. What if we went after them? After all, it would only be polite to return the favour and take back what is ours."

The dark edge that crept into Jenassa's voice made Mjoll sit up in interest.

"They are ruffians and cutthroats of the worst order. The dregs of society that hold no law or code above their own. They are not as numerous as they once were but even still, they are not to be taken on lightly. If that were the case I would have ferreted them out myself years ago."

"But you must know where they make their nest."

Mjoll nodded as she sat back and propped her feet up on the side-table.

"The Thieves Guild has always made the sewers of the city their home. A fitting place for such vermin. It is an underground labyrinth of confusing tunnels, pitfalls, and dead ends. No doubt they have all been boobytrapped because when people go into those tunnels, most never return. Those that do never speak about what they have seen. I have tried to navigate them a few times but without a proper guide I have just ended up walking in circles."

Jenassa used the toe of her boot to snag the hood of Felnore's heavy cloak. She rolled the garment into a ball and tucked it under Felnore's head as the tremors began to subside.

That was the first stage over. Now the real healing could begin. First the shakes, then the river of sweat. There was nothing left to do now but wait it out.

Jenassa rose up and stepped over Felnore, careful not to shift him from where he lay. She paced the short distance across the room as she mulled over the situation.

"If we cannot enter their domain, then what if we were to bring them to ours?"

"How so?"

Jenassa chewed her lower lip as her mind spun out the beginnings of a plan.

"You said that the Guild often targets travellers because they carry their wealth on their person. This attracts them, as we well know, and they act at night in the cover of darkness. What if we were to turn the tables and coax our friends out during the day? Make it so it would be impossible to resist trying something in broad daylight? If we catch them in the act then we force a trade."

"A trade?"

"Yes. Our gold and Felnore's belongings for the life of one of their own. Who I will happily send back in pieces until we get what we want. A thief needs fingers, ears, and eyes correct? A tongue and toes however, I'm sure they could do without."

"But how will you do this? The Guild has gotten the better of you already. They know that there is nothing left to take."

Jenassa spun lightly on her heels and Mjoll gave a start at the bloodthirsty expression etched on her dark tattooed face.

"We set a trap and fix the bait with something our light fingered poisoner will be unable to resist."

"What?"

Jenassa pointed to Felnore.

"Him?"

Jenassa gave a curt nod as the pieces began to fall into place. "It's perfect."

Mjoll arched an eyebrow.

"I...do not see what you mean. Why would the Thieves Guild be interested in stealing from Felnore again? Did they not already take everything?"

"Not everything. You see that ring on his right hand? That is a very special piece. Something happened last night that interrupted our friend or else he would not have left without it. Which means, he did not get everything. If our thief is as meticulous as I suspect he is, he will try again. To finish the job. We are just going to give him the opportunity to show himself."

"A single ring hardly seems worth the risk."

"It isn't, so we are going to have to fatten the offering."

Mjoll rubbed her hands together as she tried to follow the dark elf's line of thought.

"But how?"

"Windhelm."

"The capital of Eastmarch Hold?"

"Yes."

"What does that have anything to do with this?"

"Last winter, Felnore and I were on a the trail of a bandit clan we were hired to hunt down by the Jarl of Whiterun. Felnore had tracked them to an encampment just east of the old city when a storm hit. It was the worst blizzard the northern holds had seen in five years. By the time we made it to the city gates we were practically frozen, out of supplies, and without a single coin to our names. No one would lend us a helping hand since Felnore wasn't known to them and most of the residents do not take kindly to my kind. So Felnore called out their best blacksmith and challenged him to a test of skill. We drew in enough of a crowd that between working the betting odds in our favour and Felnore's gift with shaping metal, it was the easiest windfall we have ever made. It saw us through the storm and kept us comfortable for the next month. We lived like royalty while the wealthy thanes ate humble pie."

Mjoll was on her feet the moment she understood what was being implied. A kind of electric excitement raced up her spine as the thought of the Thieves Guild finally being beaten at their own game took hold.

"You wish to do the same thing here."

"Is your smith any good?"

"Yes. Very good. He supplies weapons to all manner of people within the Rift and has orders from other cities across the Holds. His armour has saved many a life in the heat of battle."

"His style?"

Mjoll motioned to where her battle-axe rested against the wall.

"Heavy, deadly, and plenty of steel."

A shark's smile pulled at Jenassa's mouth as she ran her tongue along her teeth. She could almost taste the coppery tang of vicious retribution that could be theirs. It was the taste of blood and honey.

"Excellent. What about the locals. Are they the kind to part with their gold?"

"Only if the bet is worth it. You are going to need to sweeten the pot considerably. If the stakes are high, so are the odds. Riften is not as prosperous as it once was. But you have nothing that you can bet against."

"Oh I wouldn't say that. If your smith knows his craft I am sure we can offer him something that will tickle his fancy."

"Well, perhaps. He is not married, so you do not have to be concerned about a jealous wife. However, he does seem to prefer the company of other men."

Mjoll looked Felnore over and was not opposed to what she saw. Aside from being drenched in a sheen of sweat, there was something there that they might be able to use.

Jenassa could easily read Mjoll's thoughts and snickered loudly.

To put Felnore's ass on the line, figuratively and literally, would make for a great story to be told around a tavern fire after a few pints in the long dark of winter.

If Felnore was fully conscious he would be have been livid.

"I think not. Well...maybe it could work...no, Felnore won't ever agree to that. But we do have his war horse that is worth its weight in solid gold. Felnore broke and trained that brute from a yearling and you won't find a finer animal fit for the trials of battle or better schooled in the art of war. There have been many times when people have offered Felnore a kings ransom and he always refuses to sell him. I think that would whet people's appetites and open their coin purses."

"But can Felnore win? Our smith Balimund is a master of his craft. His steel blades are some of the finest you are likely to come across in all of Skyrim. If you do not believe me, look at my axe. The quality is..."

Jenassa cut her off when she unsheathed her dagger and flipped it into the air before she caught it by the hand-carved elk bone handle. Mjoll watched as the mercenary straightened her hand and placed the tip of the dagger blade onto the soft pad of her index finger. The dagger, curved like a twisting snake, stood on its point without wavering.

"He made this for me as a gift for saving his life against a horde of draugr. He did it in a day."

Mjoll did not have anything left to say. She had seen enough.

"No offence to this Balimund of yours but Felnore is a Greymane, his people are from Whiterun. He has worked the Skyforge alongside Erolund Grey-Mane himself. Felnore was brought into this world wielding a hammer in one hand and an axe in the other, for which I pity his poor mother. Crafting the impossible is in his blood. If you could arrange for the challenge to take place tomorrow morning we will give this city such a spectacle. Spread the word today and that should drum up enough interest that people will be willing to wager a few septims on the outcome. Our friends in the Thieves Guild are sure to hear of this and pop out of their hole for a closer look. With Felnore in his element the crowd will be distracted and that is when we'll catch us a rat."

Mjoll's smile was grim as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Any chance to bring the sword of justice down on the heads of the Guild is fine by me. I will do all that I can to make sure that Balimund accepts your challenge. If you are certain Felnore can win then this will solve your problem. But if he should lose the bet?"

"Then Felnore will have walk back to Whiterun."

"He will not thank you for this."

Jenassa eyed the rivulets of sweat that beaded his pale skin before she returned the dagger to its sheath.

"Don't worry, he owes me."


	9. Forge and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for the holidays a double chapter feature! Here is the first one coming hot off the presses.
> 
> Felnore is in his element doing what he does best, beating the snot out of metal and making it look hot. Because somehow blacksmiths have that secret superpower? The contest is in full swing and the odds are stacked against Fel. Will he be able to pull through and succeed? Or is someone going to be incredibly footsore by the time he makes it back to Whiterun? Whatever happens he just wants to go home. I feel for the guy. But Skyrim has other ideas. I blame the daedric princes. 
> 
> Felnore's smithing song: Bully Boys by Allan Doyle (The song Fel sings while working the forge brings all the happy. I have spent four days singing this thing while driving because all the feels. Enjoy!)

How had it come to this?

_Ting!_

The ring. That bastard took his marriage band.

_Ting!_

When he got his hands on the thief, that low-lying whoreson was going to wish that he had never been whelped.

_Ting! Ting! Ting!_

Godsblood, he'd make him suffer for it. He would sink his teeth into that bastard's throat and...

_TANG!_

"Dammit!"

The shock of the hammer hitting the anvil instead of its mark shot up Felnore's arm and walloped him where it hurt the most. Right in the sinus cavity.

A nerve in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together to keep from snarling outright. Now was not the time to dwell on thoughts of bone shards and bloodied muzzles. 

There were people watching.

He paid the crowd of onlookers no mind as a chorus of muffled voices buzzed in the background. His attention was focused on the task at hand.

Craft, not kill.

The heated ore before him glowed with a dangerous warmth as he coaxed out its true form with a weighted hammer. Felnore had already moved onto working the final layers of tempered silver into the ebony blade. A risky decision due to the severe time crunch but Jenassa had insisted on it. 

Raise the stakes. Give the people something to rally behind. Do that and they would be more eager to spend their gold. If the impossible could be made real in the same amount of time it took to roast a pig on a spit, then how could anyone ignore those odds?

Leave it to Jenassa to figure out a way to turn a profit under dire circumstances. That Dunmer woman’s brilliant mind was a gift that just kept on giving.

The young boar, generously donated by Aerin at Mjoll’s request, was sweating beautifully over an open pit fire in the center of the marketplace. The salty smell of melting pig fat conjured up an image of blood-matted hair and a half-gutted torso that caught Felnore by surprise. 

The hammer struck harder than necessary to mask the tell-tale sound of a savage canine growl.

No. Not now. Not yet. He still had time. Not much, but it was his to control. 

Focus!

Either Felnore controlled his mind from wandering down the hungry road of revenge or a dead pig was going to get the better of him. Like hell was he going to lose to a damn ham hock.

"Fifteen minutes, give or take a few! This beauty’s coming along nicely.”

The pitch of the voices increased as the notion of tucking into roasted pork while watching a stranger loose his shirt, his dignity, and his horse all in the same day, invigorated the onlookers. 

The forge, having been lit for several hours, was hot as blazes as both Felnore and Balimund, the resident blacksmith, took turns to prove who was the superior smith.

They had to create a knife that could withstand the strike of a broadsword and still fly true when thrown at a target. Style, materials, and design were up to the individual smith. It was an easy enough task to accomplish for a smith who knew his trade and knew it well. But like all things, there was a catch.

Both men had to complete the challenge in the amount of time it took to cook a spitted hog and there was only one forge. 

Out of respect for the man, Balimund was given the first run. In under four hours, the weathered Nord created a heavy blade out of beaten steel that withstood the hammering Mjoll had given it before it was thrown at a filled water-bucket. The weapon had struck its mark, but the weight of the hilt was slightly too heavy, and the blade had only managed to nick the wood.

That left Felnore with only three hours to try to outdo the local favourite with as much style and finesse as he could manage. 

His gaze did not waver as he readjusted his grip on the smooth wooden handle and brought the heavy iron head down on his creation. The borrowed hammer sang out its steadfast tempo as a few curious members from the gathering edged in for a closer look. 

The strained muscles in his arms bulged under the sweat-soaked shirt that was glued to his upper body. Three hours of hard labour and sweltering heat had brought out the smith where the warrior had previously stood. All he could see, hear, and taste was sweat, fire, metal, and the blood roaring in his ears.

The suffocating warmth from the forage's glowing furnace kept the curious from getting too close while the comforting smell of ash from the glowing coals kept Felnore focused as much as possible. He was not afraid to get close to the fire. That was not the case with the wolf that dwelt under his skin. The wolf feared the flame just as much as it hated silver. When those two elements were combined, Felnore could ground himself in the moment.

The blade did not have to be pretty. It had to be deadly. Felnore was determined to make that happen. His time at the anvil was nearly spent so there was only one thing for it. Full tilt on the tap then. 

He swallowed hard as he rolled his wrist to loosen the tendons that had begun to cramp. If this was the final stretch, then he was going to have to make the most of it. With a deep inhale, he blinked the sweat out of his eyes and swung hard and fast.

_"Row me bully boys, we're in a hurry boys. We gots a long ways to go. We'll sing and we'll dance and bid farewell to chance and it's row me bully boys, row!"_

Felnore's voice rang out clear and true to rhythm of his hammer strikes. Hunger pains dulled as the words kept the pace. Each strike was of the finest precision and soon enough, others took up the words and joined him in song.

_"We sailed away in the roughest of waters, row me bully boys, row. But now we return and so lock up your daughters, row me bully boys, row!"_

The hammer and anvil took on a new appeal as Felnore crafted to the finish. Deadly and dead accurate, that was his signature style. The world around him blurred until there was nothing left for him but the forge and the fire, no truer friends a smith could ask for.

_"Row me bully boys, we're in a hurry boys. We gots a long ways to go. We'll sing and we'll dance and bid farewell to chance and it's row me bully boys, row!"_

At the far end of the marketplace, the traditional round made Jenassa crack a small smile for the first time that day. 

"About damn time." She sighed quietly with relief.

Aerin, who had hovered reluctantly at her side for the better part of two hours, shifted nervously from one leg to the other as the pig slowly rotated on the iron spit.

"What? What is it? Is it him? Is he here?" He peered over the heads of the people in front of him but could not see anything out of the ordinary. He could name every townsperson that was present and accounted for. 

“The big lug is finally singing." Jenassa rolled the stiffness from her neck as the noise in the town square escalated as the crowd took up the tune. "If he sings that means he's got his headway. He'll finish with time to spare, you can bet on it."

"Oh, I have. Mjoll wouldn't have put up with this charade if she didn't think your friend could win. Might as well make a bit of a profit off it. Seeing how I am out of pocket to feed everyone."

Jenassa rolled her eyes as her attention shifted to the cluster of people in front of her. She and Aerin had taken up position at the far end of the town's center near the steps of the Temple of Mara. This allowed them a full view of the area and room to maneuver when necessary. 

Aerin, being a lifetime resident of the city, knew everyone who lived there. If their cunning thief was going to show himself, Aerin would be able to spot him in the crowd. 

If Jenassa's hunch was correct, and it usually always was, right about now would be when their fiend would surface. An excited crowd distracted by the neck-and-neck finish, free food, gold changing hands as bets were placed, it was just too tempting an opportunity to avoid. There was no doubt in her mind that pockets would be picked today. 

Someone's neck was just going to get snapped in the process. 

The dark elf’s cold gaze shifted to where Mjoll was stationed near the inn. The tall Nord shook her head ever so slightly as she leaned casually against the wooden wall beside another armored woman who had the personality of a half-starved wolverine. 

No sign of the Fly by Night. Not yet anyway. 

"Where are you?" Jenassa muttered as her long fingers tapped the pommel of her sword. 

She took a moment to study the other blacksmith. She noted how Balimund watched Felnore work the anvil with a gaze that hinted at more than just professional approval. That made her wonder. 

Maybe they had not needed to barter Raido as collateral after all? Ah well, that ship had left port hours ago.

"Five minutes! Five minutes and he'll be ready!"

Bersi Honey-Hand, the owner of the local mercantile shop _The Pawned Prawn_ , called out the time mark from where he stood turning the spit. The crowd cheered and Jenassa's fingers rested on her hilt. 

It was now or never but, where was he?

"Look!" Aerin hissed, nudging Jenassa in the side with his elbow.

They both glanced over at Mjoll, who was being as subtle as she could with a nod in their direction. 

"What's does that mean?" Aerin asked as Jenassa scoured the gathering for the tell-tale shade of fox red. The thief had been sighted, but still nothing caught her eye. 

The sound of a throat being cleared made Jenassa stiffen, instantly annoyed.

"Lovely day for a wager isn't it? And a cook-out no less? I wonder what generous benefactor is flipping the bill for all this?”

A flash of white teeth and a cheerful grin made Aerin’s jaw drop. A tall well put-together figure in finely tailored clothes stepped out of the temple’s shadow and sauntered down the stone steps toward the two surprised onlookers. 

“You know, I think I’ll take a closer look. Not much of a view from back here. Excuse me." Brynjolf gave Jenassa a cheeky wink while he slipped past them with a practiced ease thatstemmed from more than just confidence and fine grooming.

Before Aerin or Jenassa could respond, Brynjolf merged into the crowd and was out of their sight in an instant. 

“That's Brynjolf. That's the thief! How did he- where did he…?" Aerin rotated on the spot to see if he could pick out where the green-eyed thief had materialized from but the temple behind them was empty. It was as if the man had magically popped into existence. 

Jenassa hissed several choice words that would have made any battle-hardened Imperial soldier blush to hear them. "I don't know, nor do I care. That one is going to regret his life decisions by my blade. Play me for a fool will you? Not on this plane of existence, you slippery conniving two-faced son of a…” 

The elf assassin did not wait to tail Brynjolf, but Aerin held back. This was not how they had planned this. Their target was not supposed to know they were onto him. They were supposed to catch him off guard and take him by surprise. Force a confession out of him and make him give up guild secrets in exchange for his life. 

This was not good. What were they going to do now?

"DONE!"

The loud chime of the anvil summoned everyone's attention as Felnore dropped his tools and stepped away from the forge with moments to spare. Sweat poured off him as he bent forward, his aching hands on his hips as he stretched out his upper back. The immense heat from the furnace fire finally drove him toward the nearest water trough and without ceremony Felnore plunged himself, head and shoulders, into the stale water.

"And so's the pig!" Bersi Honey-Hand hooted as he sliced a piece of crispy ear and popped it into his mouth. "Let's get on with it so we can eat! Who's hungry?" 

The excitement in the crowd grew as spectators were ushered away from the forge by Balimund as Mjoll cleared a path. One of Balimund's bone shattering steel broadswords was in her hands and the fixed expression on her face made people step aside without issue.

Had Felnore done it? Had he successfully completed the challenge? Would it hold up against Mjoll's strength? Would it fly better than Balimund's? Or would Felnore fail and lose everything? There was only one way to find out.


	10. Rat Catcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'is the season for shenanigans, fa la la la la Felnore IS PISSED!
> 
> We finally see the tip of that old iceberg of chaos! Bryn finally gets what's coming to him, we get a glimpse of what Fel can be like with people he doesn't like (remember Cujo?), Jenassa is a total boss as we all know, and Delvin Mallory makes an appearance. Because...he is hilarious. And Jason Statham. Equal bros in my books. Honestly, I always wished I could do more with Delvin in the game because he is a dearly beloved favourite of mine. Who wouldn't want to sit down and have a few drinks with that guy?
> 
> No worries, we will. Eventually. But for now, enjoy the snerks. Onward!

It was no lie that there was a hush of suspense in the air as the people quieted down to hear what Balimund had to say. Their attention was directed on the forge and the three figures who stood there.

In doing so, no one noticed Brynjolf as he expertly threaded his way toward the middle of the crowd nor did they see Jenassa stalk along the stone wall of the marketplace in an attempt to head him off before Felnore could catch sight of him.

Riften’s blacksmith held up a hand before his deep voice filled the marketplace. 

“No doubt it has been an eventful day, yet now we will finally see if this man, Felnore Greymane of Whiterun, is as good a smith as he claims to be. Remember, each blade forged must be able to withstand a sword strike and in turn hit its mark. If it is damaged or does not strike the target, then the claim is forfeit and Felnore Greymane will lose the bet. That being, as you know, that foul tempered beast he calls a war horse and the right to claim the title of best blacksmith in the Rift!”

A chorus of laughter rang out at the mention of Raido. They all had a good look at the stallion earlier that morning outside the city walls and it was plain to see that the animal was more horse than Balimund would ever have willingly bargained for.

He may be a highly respected expert in his trade across the Nine holds, but a decent horseman he most certainly was not.

When led forward, Felnore’s warhorse had taken one look at the stables and promptly decided he did not like this new scheme. He made this very clear by biting the stable master, his assistant, and a poor carthorse all before kicking a city guard clear across the stable yard. By the time Felnore could get him under control with a bucket of apples and a blindfold, Raido’s reputation as a holy terror was set in stone.

If they only knew the half of it. Raido had been gunning for his rider, not the guard.

“Felnore Greymane, are you ready?” Balimund wisely moved aside as Felnore shook himself off like a dog, water droplets flying every which way. A handful ladies in the audience squawked at getting rained on but they smiled none the less when they got an eyeful of what a soaking wet Whiterun blacksmith really looked like up close.

They were not the only ones who enjoyed the view.

In the thick of it all, Brynjolf’s calculating green eyes danced with amusement at the spectacle that was delivered for the crowd’s benefit and his. It was quite the carrot. But it would take more than a bucket of water to make him trip the clever trap that had been set in his honour.

Felnore, oblivious to the stares, blinked the water out of his eyes and nodded. “Be my guest.”

He cracked a grin as the utterly distinctive rage-fuelled bellow of Raido was heard loud and clear by all from the other side of the city wall.

_YOU BETTER WIN WOLF OR SO HELP ME YOUR MANGY ASS IS GRASS!_

Felnore swallowed a bark of laugher and cleared his throat.

“I know a bet’s a bet, but are you sure you want my horse?” He asked Balimund, who suddenly looked a little uncertain about the stakes.

“We’ll talk later. Now, let’s take a look at this knife.” Balimund gestured at the anvil and the crowd fell silent.

Felnore huffed a breath before he carefully picked up his creation with a piece of tanned deer hide, as the blade was still naked without a proper leather wrapping to act as a handgrip. There was enough silver carefully melded into the ebony weapon that any direct contact would instantly cause angry welts to appear wherever the metal touched his skin.

There was no hesitation as he handed the knife over. It was now or never.

Where Balimund’s steel knife was of a traditional Nordic design and proper weighted grip, Felnore’s knife was a long sleek singular piece of folded metal and ore. There was no doubt that the blade would fly a distance when thrown. But was it strong enough to avoid shattering when struck by a much larger and heavier weapon?

Balimund tested the knife’s edge by sliding it along the piece of leather and came away with a neat ribbon of deer skin. He gave a grunt of approval.

“For the first test, Mjoll will strike it with the broadsword. If it breaks, I win. If it does not, we move on to the second test.”

Mjoll rolled her neck as she lifted the broadsword. She was not going to hold back.

“Ready?” Balimund asked when the naked blade was placed on a wooden chopping block.

The Nord warrior scowled as she shifted her weight to her outer leg to support the full force of her swing. All eyes were on the broadsword as it rose skyward.

“By Ysmir!” Her war-cry startled a roosting pigeon as she swung the heavy sword down upon the blade with all her might.

The tell-tale ring of metal on metal clanged as clear as a bell before the sword bit into the wooden block with a heavy thunk.

The spectators held their breath as Mjoll wrenched the sword free. Balimund picked up the knife to inspect it. It was still in one piece. Not a scratch on it.

This time he did more than just grunt. He clapped Felnore on the shoulder and nodded to the crowd.

“Well done!” Someone called out as a round of applause rippled through the gathering. “Well done!”

“Aye, well done. But can it still be thrown? That was quite the beating.”

The words carried a touch of brogue that made Mjoll grind her back-teeth together in agitation.

Felnore gaze swept over the people’s heads as his nostrils flared subtly. He caught wind of the speaker before he saw him. The scent he recognized, the face not so much.

“That’s him.”

The words barely made it out of Mjoll’s mouth before Felnore’s teeth were on display in a controlled smile that could have been mistaken for mirth instead of dangerous promise.

Felnore accepted the blade and turned with a theatrical flourish.

“Only one way to find out. You sir, why don’t you pick the target? I dare say that old well bucket has had enough abuse for one day.”

A chuckle rippled through the group.

“How about the pig, lad? Tempting and tasty a target as any.”

The crows feet around Felnore’s eyes deepened as his smile grew a little wider. “Which one? I’m afraid you will have to be more specific. I see two from where I’m standing, but one’s not quite dead. Yet.”

The gaggle of shop wives that had claimed the space closest to the forge were shifted aside as Brynjolf shouldered past. He stood before Mjoll and Felnore as bold as brass with his hands planted on his hips.

“How’s about you decide? And make it good lad. Give the audience a thrill.”

Mjoll’s grip on the broadsword tightened. Three steps and an honest swing was all she needed to remove Brynjolf’s head from his shoulders.

“Why you thieving yellow-bellied rodent! I will give you the thrill you seek and rid this city of your filth once and for all.” She snarled under her breath as she lifted the tip of the sword in a threatening gesture.

The pads of Felnore’s fingers stung as the hewn surface of his blade pressed into the thick calloused skin that protected his hands from the sparks of the forge’s fire. At this distance Felnore could cut Brynjolf’s throat before anyone would have the chance to stop him. They both knew it. It would be quick but far too easy. Not nearly as painful as the man deserved.

No, Felnore wanted to return what Brynjolf had given him in kind. An eye for an eye. Nothing less would do.

“What an excellent idea. Everyone clear a path. How far do you need?” Balimund interjected, forcing Felnore to look away.

Smirking, Brynjolf submerged into the swarm of people as everyone shifted and jostled to get a better view of the cooking spit. It took Bersi a moment before he realized what was about to happen. He scooted out of the way right quick least a wayward throw decided that he would make for a better target than the hog.

With all eyes on Felnore once more, Jenassa saw her chance. As Felnore lined up the throw, Jenassa unsheathed her own dagger and kept the flat edge of the blade firmly against her forearm. Brynjolf had revealed himself when he baited Felnore and Mjoll and now Jenassa was on him like a hunting cat. Moving with the shadows the Dark Elf prowled her way carefully until she came up directly behind the overconfident thief.

The width of his shoulders was a very tempting offering. One thrust through a middle rib, a sharp twist upward was all it would take to end the man’s life without uttering a sound. She had just as much cause to want the man dead as the others but Jenassa tempered the urge to honour her chosen lifelong profession.

This was not her mark. She was merely the merchant, not the buyer.

Felnore played out the moment before he drew his arm up and let the dagger fly. Five rapid rotations and the black and silver blade struck home, neat as a pin in the pig’s left eye.

The crowd erupted in a loud cheer as the citizens of Riften surged forward to congratulate the victor and finally have a go at a free meal. For some, it would be the first in days. For all, it was the first time they have had anything truly worth celebrating in quite some time.

“Well I’ll be. He’s done it. That’s quite the charge you got there lass. You must be pleased.” 

The Dunmer hissed as the tip of her dagger stung the middle of Brynjolf’s back. Plan or no plan, if he so much as moved without her say so that blade would kiss his heart from behind.

Brynjolf may be a world-class thief but Jenassa was a damn good assassin.

“If you only knew, you never would have paid him a visit.” She purred as she directed him toward the forge by digging the dagger viciously into his back until the blade bit into his skin. “He wants a word with you.”

“Easy there lass. Mind the tunic.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

“If you insist.”

The blade sliced across his back, rending fabric and layers of skin until the curved dagger’s lethal point rested directly along his spine. Two and a half inches would leave him paralyzed from the shoulders down with just the right amount of pressure. Jenassa knew a hundred ways to cripple a man and most of them required little to no effort to do it.

This time it was Brynjolf who hissed.

“For your sake, thief, I hope you still have that ring. Because if you don’t, you better start praying to whatever gods you think might value your pathetic soul.” The venom in her voice made Brynjolf pause as they approached Balimund’s forge.

He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder.

“He married _you?_ ”

Wrong again.

Jenassa boxed him on the temple with her left fist, hard enough to throw him off-balance. He stumbled forward and Jenassa kept the momentum going with a hard shove of her shoulder.

“He is going to eat you alive you know, and I am going to let him. I will probably enjoy every moment.” She kept him moving until Brynjolf collided into the massive anvil.

The thief had grossly underestimated Jenassa. Trapped between the anvil and the blood thirsty assassin, Brynjolf winced at the dramatic change in his circumstances. If he was worried though, he did not show it.

To show any sign of fear was to invite death.

“You know, this is all just a big misunderstanding.” He braced himself against the anvil in order to have something solid at his hip as he turned to face her.

“Oh, I am sure it is. But you might want to explain that to him.” Jenassa looked over Brynjolf’s shoulder as two more join their little exchange.

For what it was worth, Brynjolf did not break his calm demeanour as he pivoted and was met with a sword pointed in his face.

“Mjoll. A pleasure as always.” He beamed her way as he stared down the length of the blade and cocked an eyebrow. “Bit of an overkill, isn’t it? I mean really. A sword?”

“You deserve this and more you piece of canal filth!”

Brynjolf heaved a bored sigh as he tilted his head forward until his nose pressed against the tip of the grooved blade. “What is it with you and filth? Do I smell? If you’re going to bandy insults with me Lioness, you might want to work on your repertoire. This act gets tired very quickly. You can do better. You just have to believe in yourself.”

Jenassa’s teeth clicked together as she laughed. It was a sound that made the hairs along the back of Brynjolf’s neck prickle with unease. There was nothing pleasant about that sound. 

“It’s Brynjolf, just Brynjolf, right?” Felnore finally spoke up.

Mjoll lowered the broadsword but neither she nor Jenassa sheathed their weapons.

Brynjolf leaned into the anvil, his focus solely on Felnore. If there was one way out of this mess, it would be through him. “You remembered? You surprise me blacksmith. How long did it take you?”

Felnore moved with a fluid grace that not many would expect him to possess. Those were the ones that ended up dead.

Brynjolf instinctively leapt back but his timing was off. Fingers like an iron leg trap closed around his wrist and fixed his left hand firmly to the anvil as Felnore held him in place with such force that Brynjolf felt a twinge of honest fear course through his veins.

Captured he could handle. Being stuck was never a problem for someone with his mental caliber and special talents. But trapped like a hare in a snare? That was not a feeling Brynjolf enjoyed. Quite the opposite in fact.

“Now lad, there’s no need for hard feelings. No damage was done.” Brynjolf tested Felnore’s grip and knew at once that it was a lost cause. The man had steel in his bones. It took little effort to realize that Felnore’s strength lay in more than just his muscles. The man was like a mountain. Unmovable.

Felnore shifted forward and Brynjolf leaned back to keep some distance between them. Neither man blinked. Neither man wavered. They just stared at each other over the anvil until Felnore sniffed hard before he made up his mind.

“Mjoll’s correct. You are the filth that lives on the backs of sewer rats. I can smell it all over you. You are not worth killing. You are not worth the cost nor the pain it would cause the people I care about to worry while I’m stuck in a cell. You are trash. And you will always amount to that. You belong in those sewers.”

Brynjolf’s mouth was a thin, hard line as Felnore’s words hit closer to home than he would ever willingly admit. Brynjolf had a long history with Riften’s sewers and those were painful memories he kept locked away deep within for a reason.

Felnore slid his thumb directly into the pulse point on the inside of Brynjolf’s wrist. He wanted to feel the man’s heartbeat, not just hear it, for what came next.

Jenassa moved around the forge to stand closer to Mjoll so that together they blocked most of the view from any would-be onlookers. Everyone was too busy carving into the cleverly planted distraction to bother wondering what their little group was discussing in such close proximity.

That shark toothed smile of hers was as lethal as ever as she picked up one of the hammers that Felnore had used earlier. It was the smallest one, used for delicate engraving and the like. Not too heavy but it did have enough weight to get the job done right.

“Be quick about it before people start to take notice.” She passed the hammer over to Mjoll, who nodded grimly, before she handed it to Felnore.

In Felnore’s thick-knuckled paw the hammer looked like a child’s toy but even a toy could be dangerous when used by an expert hand.

“I will ask you only once. Where is my ring?”

There was no snarling, no swearing of dark oaths, none of the usual blustering that came with the traditional torture methods. Just a simple straightforward question delivered in a neutral tone. Where was the ring?

Felnore stared at Brynjolf as the man’s heart kept a steady beat beneath his touch.

Brynjolf inhaled sharply before he did something he would normally never do under such circumstances. He told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

The strike was sudden, swift, and over before the pain had time to register in Brynjolf’s brain. The fifth finger of his left hand was crushed by a hammer tap and Felnore’s grip on his wrist acted as a pain tourniquet, pinching the nerves to keep the pulsating agony at bay for a few extra seconds before the delayed reaction kicked in like a blow to the solar plexus.

“Urgh!”

Brynjolf grunted as the jolt rattled his nerve endings. Refusing to give an inch, he steeled himself against the urge to buckle forward and instead breathed through the pain. This was not the first time he found himself on the receiving end of a violent message. Felnore was going to have to up his game if he thought that a few broken fingers were going to make him talk.

Aside from a hitch of surprise, Brynjolf’s pulse remained even.

“I don’t care about the gold, or the weapons, or even the belt, which belongs to the Companions of Jorrvaskr, not me. That buckle is the sigil of the Wolf and belongs to the Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane. You just picked a fight with Jorrvaskr and it is one that you will not win. But right now, what I want is my ring.”

Felnore did not pause in his explanation as the hammer came down in rapid succession. Brynjolf’s ring and middle fingers were splintered at each joint but it was the fourth tap that finally made Brynjolf cry out. That one had struck the back of his hand, hard enough to fracture the fragile network of bones but not shatter them beyond repair.

The hammer hovered as Felnore leaned in close, so close that his beard brushed against the other man’s exposed neck, as he placed his mouth to his ear.

“The next strike will cripple you for the rest of your life. No amount of healing potions or spellwork will ever allow you to regain the use of it. Would you rather I show mercy and cut it off? That way you wouldn’t have to live with the sight of your deformity? Of how you failed? Isn’t that the way of it, thief? Get caught, lose a hand? Or is it an eye? Or an ear? A nose perhaps? Maybe the tongue. Which would be a shame in your case, since yours is so talented. I will let you choose. Pick your payment.”

His voice was nothing more than a deepthroated murmur that only Brynjolf could hear. But the pain was such that the words did not register. Only the sound of their intent. The pattern of Brynjolf’s heartbeat skipped and Felnore sneered.

“You like pain? You do, don’t you? Guess what?” He shifted to look the thief in the eye. “So do I.”

His left hand anchored the back of Brynjolf’s neck as he bared his teeth and clamped down on Brynjolf’s left ear. With a deft jerk of his head, Felnore bit through the cartilage and swallowed.

This time Brynjolf screamed. But the sound was muffled by Felnore’s shoulder as he trapped him in an impossible embrace. His fingers dug into all that red hair as he held him close. The harder Brynjolf struggled, the tighter Felnore’s grip became, until breathing became impossible.

“You’re going to kill him!” Mjoll barked as Jenassa just stood there and laughed.

“Isn’t that the point?” She asked the Nord as Felnore glared at them, a steam of blood staining the silver in his beard.

“We need him alive. We need him to get to the rest of the Thieve’s Guild. He’s no good to us dead.”

“Nor us neither. So, you best let him go or else I’ll be the one doin’ the carving around here eh?”

A heavy dock accent caught them unawares. Mjoll spun around and growled like her namesake when she saw Aerin standing on tip-toe as a larger man with a shaved head and menacing stare pricked the skin under his neck with one of Felnore’s missing knives. It was the smaller one, used for silencing those that needed to stay quiet.

“'Ello love. Long time no see. You’re lookin’ fit as ever. Pity I can’t say the same about your milksop here. He’s lookin’ a bit rough, ain’t he?” The man leered as Aerin whimpered when the knife pricked him again, harder this time. Blood began to flow and the smell of it caught Felnore’s attention.

“Who’s this then Mjoll? New friends? That one’s certainly takin’ a liking to my Brynjolf, hasn’t he?”

Jenassa had her dagger trained on the man the moment he made his presence known. But Mjoll did the opposite. She sheathed the broadsword.

“Mjoll, who is this?”

Mjoll’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. “Delvin Mallory.”

She spat at his feet.

“The one and only.” The cunning man grinned as he twisted the knife point a little deeper. “Delvin Mallory, Master-At-Arms, Purser and Second-in-Command of the Thieve’s Guild at yer service. And you lot must be those chucklekfucks Bryn fleeced two nights back. That explains it. No one else is stupid enough to mess with the Guild in Guild territory. And my dear, you’re standin’ in the heart of it. Now, hand over my thief and I’ll let the eunuch live.”

Jenassa took a step and Delvin just smiled. “Not a smart idea love. Look up.”

Mjoll and Jenassa both raised their gazes to the rooftops and that was when they noticed that six cleverly hidden archers had their arrows aimed at them, bows taunt and ready to fly.

“All I has to do is give the signal, and you lot perish. Is that what you want? Give me what’s mine and I’ll call off the dogs.”

Felnore responded with a growl that was more doglike than human. His hold on Brynjolf was solid and sure. By now either Brynjolf was dead or had passed out from the pain because he no longer struggled.

“Oi! Don’t give me any cheek. I’m done bein’ nice. Have it your way then.”

“Wait. Wait!”

Jenassa threw her knife to the ground in disgust and held up her hands in surrender. His comment about dogs and Felnore’s growl reminded her of what she had stupidly forgotten. “We will give him back but first answer me this. How many hours until nightfall?”

“Wot?” Delvin regarded her with suspicion. What kind of question was that?

“Just answer me! How much time do we have left? Every life in this wretched city, yours and mine, depends on it.”

Delvin shook his head. “What’s she playin’ at?”

Mjoll growled. “Tell her.”

Aerin agreed with a quiet moan when Delvin adjusted the angle of the knife on his neck.

“I dunno. Two, three I guess. Why’s that important?”

Felnore’s grip on Brynjolf’s wrist slowly loosened. He had gotten what he needed. Brynjolf would survive this encounter and be lucky for it. But he would not forget this. That would be impossible. Felnore had made sure of it.

“You are welcome to what’s left. I have no use for any of it.”

Felnore dragged Brynjolf’s unconscious body away from the forge and left him lying in a useless heap on the ground. He and Delvin took the measure of each other but made no move to further either of their claims. Delvin was no idiot and Felnore now had the taste of Riften’s underbelly in his mouth. It would be the smart man’s move to take the draw and call it a day.

Delvin took stock of the situation and whistled sharply. The archers lowered their bows.

“He’ll live?”

Felnore nodded.

 “I dare say he got what’s owed then. Remind me never to wager a bet with you lot. Don’t like the odds.”

Delvin maneuvered himself closer to the still form of his younger colleague while keeping Aerin between himself and Felnore’s group. “I won’t say it hasn’t been a pleasure but if any of you ever think about comin’ after me or mine again, I’ll skin the lot of you myself and feed what’s left to the skeevers. We got some big ones where we are. Big as boars. Now you be a good poppet and run to your mummy.”

Aerin winced as Delvin left a small reminder of his promise along the base of his throat when he removed the knife and pushed the smaller man into Mjoll.

“I’ll be goin’ now an’ congratulations on the win. Made quite a tidy sum off that.” Delvin’s shoulders were more than strong enough to accommodate Brynjolf’s weight as he hoisted the injured thief off the ground under the watchful gaze of the archers.

“You won’t get away with this.” Mjoll despised the fact that she could do nothing but watch as her chance at ridding the city of the guild slipped through her fingers. She had been so close this time and still they somehow managed to get the upper hand.

“I already have love.”

Delvin gave the four of them a final once over before he darted off down an alleyway between the nearest buildings. One sharp whistle and the archers unleashed a volley of arrows before they too vanished across the rooftops as if they had never been. The arrows struck the side of the smith’s shop in warning.

Try anything and the next ones will find their mark.

“I really despise this city.” Jenassa growled. “And we’ve officially worn out our welcome here.”

Mjoll had a few other choice things to say about the matter as she cut off a corner of Aerin’s tunic and used it to staunch the bleeding. Being fussed over by Mjoll went right over Aerin’s head as he stared hard at Felnore with a mix of disbelief and curiosity that did not go unnoticed.

“What?”

Felnore glanced down to see what kind of a mess he had made.

“Is that…fur coming out of your ears?”

Felnore’s hand flew to the side of his head and his blistered fingertips traced the now elongated earlobe that was indeed covered entirely in a thick layer of soft grey fur.

“Oh shit!”

Jenassa snatched up her dagger and was at Felnore’s side before Mjoll looked up. She sliced through the leather thong that kept Felnore’s mane bundled in a loose knot at his neck. The thick locks fell forward in waves and instantly hid his ears from view.

“We have to leave. Now!”

Felnore did not need to be told twice.


	11. Raido

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to meet the Wolf! Finally! And...ah...wow. Dork Dads can derp pretty hard sometimes. Ugh, Felnore! Or should I say, Felnoof?

_You low down dirty no-good dog brained son of a tick eater! Use me in a bet, will you? Me! After all I've done for you? After all those times I've saved your pathetic mongrel backside in battle! You just throw all that away for money? Is that all I am to you? A coin-earning carthorse that you think you can just barter with whenever you feel like it? I AM THE GREATEST WAR HORSE YOU DIRT EATING MONKEYS WILL EVER SEE, AND THIS IS HOW I AM TREATED! LIKE CATTLE! HOW DARE YOU!!!_

The fury of Radio's bellows was ground shaking as the massive war horse reared back in a fit of anger that was usually reserved for the battlefield. The dapple-grey stallion snorted fire and brimstone as a huge steel-shod hoof tore up the ground. It was just him and Felnore in the stable yard, and neither was willing to back down from this.

"Raido, easy. Easy! Now is not the time for this."

Felnore danced to the side as Radio barreled forward in a mock charge, tossing his head up so that Felnore could not reach his headstall. The whites of the draft's eyes gleamed as he glared down at the source of his aggravation.

_You have some nerve Wolf!_

"Easy boy. Just take it easy now."

Radio clicked his teeth as his heavy head swung from side to side.

_You donkey's arse! If you think that I'm going to let you on my back after that, you have another thing coming. Don't you touch me! Don't you touch my bridle! Back off or I WILL BITE YOU!_

Quick as a snake, the stallion clamped down on the fleshy part of Felnore's thigh. That guaranteed a pained holler as Felnore swore a blue streak. The odd pair danced an odd five-legged jig as Felnore tried to pry his horse's jaws open while Raido refused to let go.

_Howyouliethemaffleshuh!_

Raido bit down hard enough to bruise, not maim, but he made damn sure Felnore got the message. When he finally did release Felnore, the blacksmith toppled backward into the dirt, cradling his leg to his chest.

"Demon mule!"

_Dog breath!_

"ENOUGH!” Jenassa snapped from where she was working on the straps of Helgath's harness. The bay mare stood primly at attention while keeping a weathered eye on the misfit duo. “Felnore will you get up and get that horse saddled? Need I remind you we are running out of time!"

"What do you think I'm trying to do? He's being a right pain in the ass!" Felnore grumbled when he gingerly put weight on his leg and instantly regretted it.

Of all the warhorses in Skyrim, his had to be the one smart enough to hold a grudge.

_You started it! You're lucky I don't stomp you into the ground like the lying insect you are, you backstabbing louse!_

"He's a war horse Felnore. Deal with it!"

Jenassa's fingers made quick work of Helgath’s girth strap before she adjusted the stirrups. Having been in the sword-for-hire business for as long as she had, Jenassa always made it a point to travel light for obvious reasons. A well-timed exit was always spoiled if the horses were not properly seen to. She could get Helgath saddled and be on her way in under six minutes.

Felnore, on the other hand, was a different story. All that heavy armour and weaponry of his needed to be carefully arranged and that took time.

Felnore snagged Raido by his long forelock.

"Listen you." He growled through clenched teeth. "Very soon I am going to become very unpleasant to be around and if I am not away from this place bad things are going to happen to a lot of people. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Raido's nostrils flared red as they stood eyeball to eyeball.

_Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided that your reputation was worth more than our partnership._

One solid whack of that thick skull and Felnore was bowled back into the dirt, head over arse, where he belonged.

_Go cry wolf to someone else because I don't care._

With a swish of his tail Raido stomped off with his nose in the air to go stand next to Helgath.

"Oh, for Azura's sake!" Jenassa looked skyward. "I work with children."

Helgath bobbed her head in agreement.

"I swear, one of these days I am going to sell that animal for boot leather."

Felnore spat out a mouthful of straw as he rolled carefully onto his knees. As his hair shifted, his ears appeared, completely furred and larger than normal.

It was always the damn ears that gave him away.

For Felnore, furry ears and big canine teeth were the bane of his existence whenever his blood was up. He never knew when something would set him off. Despite the hair and beard combination, there was no way to really hide it when it did happen.

"Damn horse."

A nerve in his lower back gave a vicious twinge that bent him forward. For a heart stopping moment, his spine contracted in a ripple of seductive agony that travelled down to his tailbone. It was an all-too familiar warning. The wolf was waking, and it wanted to stretch out after being confined for so long.

But it was too soon.

"Jenassa." Felnore grunted, eyes closed tight because colours in the world stopped making sense. He had to concentrate on breathing. He was still in control, not the wolf. He had the ring. Hircine's ring. It made certain that his wolf within answered to his command, not the other way around. Yet, the skin burned around the ancient metal band with a growing heat that made his joints swell.

Why was the wolf rising now? He still had time. The moon had yet to breach the horizon.

It was the taste. That flavour of green-eyed fear infused with a rich confidence so thick, it had overpowered the coopery tang of blood. He could still smell it, the thief. The tell-tale scent of a fox in autumn, snug in the safety of its warm den. Musk, smoke, underground, night air, and the choicest morsel of cunning and stealth.

One mouthful was not enough. Nowhere near enough.

Felnore’s teeth ached for more. His tongue snagged on an incisor that was too sharp to ever be human and he coughed up blood.

"Dammit! Jen- _ah!_ "

The Dark Elf turned in time to see the shadow of the wolf fall across his face before his spine locked.

"By the Nine, not yet!" Jenassa frantically dug through her saddlebag for the one thing that could stop things from spiralling out of control, but to her surprise, she came up empty handed. "No!"

Moon or no moon, Felnore’s time had run out.

_Well, we’re screwed._

"Raido! Help Felnore!" Jenassa whacked the horse hard across his hindquarters before she tore into the pile Felnore's belongings heaped on the ground next to Raido's elaborate saddle.

Raido was by no means the forgiving sort but the war horse would never disobey a direct command. His pride would never allow it.

With a dramatic snort, the stallion lumbered over to Felnore. Despite his size, Raido lowered himself onto his front knees and dropped his neck. It was an old riding trick that had saved Felnore in the past. Heavy armour could turtle a crippled fighter in the heat of battle and it took a smart horse to get his rider off the field before flailing hooves finished the job.

By equine standards, Raido was a very temperamental bottomless pit of a genius.

_You waiting for an invitation?_

Felnore managed to lock his lengthening dark-clawed hands into Raido’s mane and the horse did the rest. A firm shove of his nose had Felnore secured squarely across his wide back.

_Remember Wolf, you bite me I bite you back._

Raido rocked onto his hooves and left the stable behind in a cloud of dust. This was not the first time he had to put space between a place and Felnore and it would not be the last. They had trained for this and all that extra ground work paid off.

Jenassa swore as she gathered up Helgath's reins and swung into the saddle. She would come back for Felnore's gear once the moon was up. Right then, she had to make sure no one saw Felnore in his fur and decided to shoot him full of arrows before it grew too dark to see without a torch.

"Ya!" Jenassa dug her heels to Helgath's side and the mare took off after Raido.

The trail was not a hard one to follow. A wide path carved through the undergrowth, headed away from the city before it diverted into the thick tree line, off the road and into the forest where no one would ever willingly venture.

The surrounding landscape was full of bandits, beasts, and all manner of dark creatures that would happily feast on a waylaid traveller. If there was an upside to this cockup, it was that Felnore would be in good company for the night. That is if he did not pick a fight with something nastier than himself and ended up torn to shreds because of a territorial tiff gone wrong.

Argh! Why did these things always happen under her watch?

Long minutes passed before Jenassa slowed her horse to a steady walk and scanned the trees. Golden birches whispered their secrets to the wind as the late evening sunlight filtered through the leaves.

"Felnore!" Jenassa listened for a response. There was none. "Raido!"

Helgath gave a nervous squeal when she picked up a potent tell-tale whiff of werewolf.

Jenassa unsheathed her sword from its scabbard and she urged her mare onward. The deeper into the trees they went, the more anxious the Helgath became until she finally balked and refused to take another step forward.

"Close enough." Jenassa dismounted and quick-tied her horse to a low-hanging tree limb. She was going to have to dismount and continue on foot.

Helgath ears perked forward as she turned her attention toward a thicket.

That must be where Raido was holed up. Felnore had trained him well. The war horse would not abandon his rider nor give away his position if the situation was dire.

"Well done lady."

Jenassa withdrew a small pouched filled with strips of dried goat meat from her saddlebag and attached it to her belt. The pouch, made from tanned horker skin, still carried the oily stink of the sea. It was potent enough to attract any sensitive nose, especially a hungry one.

The moon's deadly sway would not have taken over yet, but it was never wise to track down an eight-foot-tall wall of fur and fangs without having something to distract it. On a good day, meat often did the trick. On a bad day, well, there were not enough throats in the Nine Holds that could satiate that monstrous appetite.

Jenassa prayed that it was a good day.

Sword in hand, she picked her way into the densely packed group of trees. Twigs snarled her hair as she shoved branches aside with her blade. She was mindful of where she stepped, as tree roots threatened to trip and snag with every footfall. Carefully she pushed through a clump of thorny bushes and was thankful to be covered in scaled armour.

"Where are you?" Jenassa muttered as she studied the bushes. The area had gone quiet, so she knew she must be in the right patch. Even birds silenced their song when a wolf was about.

Jenassa whistled. A high and low tone, a herder's command, used for dogs to move sheep across fields. She waited before she repeated the call. On the third go was when she heard it. A soft nicker that came from the opposite direction.

Changing course, Jenassa kept her sword ready to stab anything that moved. There was enough silver in the blade to make any Child of Hircine think twice about having a go at her. If not the blade, then one good whack with the silver pommel would leave a burn mark that would take days to heal. Felnore had designed the sword to compliment her fighting style and she had used it often against its maker for good measure.

"Stand down Raido."

The war horse had done a commendable job of finding the worst possible hiding spot to access. He had wedged his bulk into a small opening and kept his head lowered as to not be easily spotted. The reason became very clear when Jenassa wriggled herself free of the surrounding thorn bushes.

"Seriously?" Her eyebrows swept up to her hairline in surprise at the sight before her.

_What can I say? Manwolves are stupid. Funny enough, he's not the dumbest of the bunch._

The two of them watched as Felnore tried and failed to free himself from a trap of his own making. The harder he struggled the harder it was not to laugh.

"Ugh, Felnore. It’s times like these I honestly wonder about your ability to survive on your own.”

Jenassa sheathed her sword and withdrew her dagger. This was going to take some careful maneuvering on her part.

"Hold still and I'll get you loose."

A deep rumble of dark protest shook the trees as Felnore attempted to twist his head to see who was talking. He gagged as the leather belt around his neck cut deeper into the thick fur ruff and hooked his windpipe. With his weight acting as a countermeasure to the makeshift noose that held him captive, Felnore was well and truly stuck in a copse of supple birch trees that bent and swayed with his movement. Had they been older and firmer, Felnore's strength was such that he could have pulled himself free. But these trees were tricky. Deep roots held firm as the young supple trunks dipped and pulled back.

He huffed a choked sigh as he hung there, balanced precariously on his hind legs, trapped like a hare in a wire snare.

"You have to hand it to Balimund. The man’s skill with leather is remarkable." Jenassa edged around a splayed hind-paw as she approached him cautiously from behind. One of Felnore’s paws was wider than her torso and had claws large enough to disembowel a bull elk with a single swipe.

"Should we tell him that he managed to catch a werewolf with a single belt-strap? I bet that would encourage sales. Not even you can claim that feather in your cap."

Felnore snarled but the heavy metal buckle of his belt dug in deep right under his jaw and cut him off.

“Jealous, are we?”

Felnore’s bright amber eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Jenassa avoided stepping on his long tail as it lashed from back and forth in annoyance. He was always sensitive about that extra appendage and loathed whenever anyone tried to touch it. She had attempted it once, out of curiosity, and Felnore almost swallowed her arm before he stopped himself. Lesson learned.

The tail was off limits. Even if it was rather…fluffy.

Now at a better angle, Jenassa took stock of the situation as she worked out what to do next.

Somehow, he had managed to hook himself behind the ears on a forked limb that refused to break. Even if she managed to cut through the branch it would not solve the issue. The belt was fastened tight around his furry neck, a neck that was far thicker than the circumference of his human waist.

Well-treated animal hide did not just tear apart under pressure.

"I am going to try to cut through the belt, so don’t you dare snap at me."

Felnore wrinkled his muzzle and a mouthful of knives gleamed wetly when Jenassa grabbed a fistful of long guard hairs to steady herself as she climbed onto his back. For anyone else, this act alone would have been suicide. For Jenassa, straddling a full-grown male werewolf like a wily unbroken colt was all part of her "other duties as assigned".

Felnore's large tufted ears flattened against his enormous skull in protest when a few hairs were pulled from his pelt. He still had enough control of his mind to tolerate this violation of his dignity, but like everything else, it was not going to last long. Once the moonlight hooked him, he would no longer see the Dark Elf for who she was, but rather what she was.

Meat. Glorious mouthfuls of hot-blooded flesh and marrow.

 _Grrrrrr_. Stop it.

This was Jenassa. His Jenassa. His friend. Jenassa was part of his Pack. Jenassa was trying to help. Jenassa had silver. Silver was bad. He did not like it. But Jenassa had meat. Meat smelt good. He wanted that meat. Couldn't reach the meat though. He was hungry.

 _Grrrrr._ Meat.

This irritated him to no end.

"Stop squirming." Jenassa grunted as Felnore jerked back and slammed her against the trees. The tip of her dagger must have scratched him as she tried her best to saw through the leather belt as fast as she could without cutting into Felnore's neck. "Almost free."

Felnore gave an honest-to-goodness whine as his nose twitching frantically toward the smell of the pouch at her waist. Jenassa gave the dagger a sharp tug as she cut upward with a solid thrust. The belt did not give way, but she had managed to cut through enough of it that Felnore could take care of the rest.

“Is this what you want? Go get it because I am not hand-feeding you." She stuck her dagger between her teeth as she undid the pouch and tossed it off to the side. Felnore tracked the meaty missile and squirmed frantically until his feet gained enough traction to dig long furrows into the dirt. With muscles coiled like taunt springs, he launched himself after the pouch. The sudden downward thrust tore the leather and with a snap Felnore was free.

Jenassa was off his back before all four paws hit the ground.

One click of those deadly jaws and the pouch vanished. Nose to the dirt, Felnore sniffed in a circle to see if there was anything else worth eating. Only a few earth worms and the odd grub were hiding under the leafy carpet. Nothing satisfying, but he snapped them up anyway. Frustrated, he turned with a growl to find Jenassa waiting with both her sword and dagger in hand.

"Put some leagues between you and the city. Head toward the mountains and go hunt for your supper there. I'll track you down in the morning. Do not try to follow me or else I will give you something to really growl about. Understand?"

Everything from the way she stood to the tone of her voice was about control. She was in control. Her eyes glared into his without blinking. If he approached she would strike, and it would hurt. She meant what she said, and her point was clear.

Beat it or bite it, there was nothing to eat here.

Felnore grumbled. The rumblings in his chest vibrated through the forest floor as he locked gazes with the dark elf. Burning amber against deep red, Felnore saw her challenge and decided to answer it. On all fours, he stood as tall than the assassin. But on his hind legs, he dwarfed her. One smack of his paw could break her in half. One slice of his claws would tear through armour and flesh. One snap of his teeth and her skull would crack like a chicken egg.

This was Jenassa. Jenassa was his friend. Jenassa was part of his Pack. But Jenassa was trying to be top wolf.

Man or monster, Jenassa could read Felnore like a book. She saw what went on behind those heated eyes and did not hesitate. She struck first, fast, and hard.

"Oh no you don’t! Get out of here! Get!" The tip of her sword tagged him high on the shoulder. The sting of silver accompanied the stink of singed fur as the blade bit into the skin.

Felnore snarled and lashed out with a sweep of his claws but Jenassa ducked under his long reach and brought the flat of her blade down on his muzzle as hard as she could. One good smack across his sensitive nose and Felnore backed off with a surprise yelp.

"Now GET!" It was her turn to snarl and she swung her sword around for another pass. The next strike was going to go right between the eyes and it would not be pretty.

The silver-grey werewolf glowered under the threat, but the message went through his thick skull. Some fights were worth the pain, but this was not. He was in no mood for a fight, not when hunger was the foremost thing on his mind. The elf was too stringy to satisfy anyway. There was easier prey to hunt in the trees, bigger prey, he could smell it.

He dropped to all fours with a thud and gave himself a good hard shake. Long strands of fur floated off him in a silvery cloud. It would be shedding season soon and when it hit, the thick undercoat that insulated him from the elements would end up carpeting the territory. The major change in seasons was always a dangerous time for wolves. It made it easier for hunters to track down their whereabouts and set traps in hopes of a big payoff.

But the forests of the Rift were not Whiterun, and this was not his home territory. Caution was an instinctual driving force as he inhaled deeply and sneezed to clear his nostrils. Finally, he could breathe.

“You done?”

Felnore flicked an ear back in acknowledgement before he scented the wind. His nose locked onto something important. Something large. Something blooded. Something...

Stag!

There was a stag nearby. It smelt young. It smelt of the best tender meat. It smelt terrified.

That stag was his.

Strings of slobber dripped off his fangs as hunger took over. He gave Jenassa a canine grin, full of deadly promise, before he bounded off into the brush with a sweep of his tail. On all fours, only another werewolf could ever hope to keep up with him as his incredible stride ate up the distance.

In the time it took Jenassa to sheath her weapons he was long gone, and a prime stag was running for its life. A life that was about to end in a grizzly finale.

"Well, that's that." Jenassa exhaled slowly as she forced her muscles to relax. Azura had heard her after all. Today was a good day.

Until the moonlight lit up the night sky.

But by then, Jenassa would be safely holed up behind thick walls and a battalion of armed guards. She just hoped Felnore could stay the course long enough to get as far from Riften as possible before his mind went dark. Only time would tell, and she was not going to be wandering the forest, alone, when it did.

"Come Raido. You get an extra ration of carrots tonight."

The war horse did not kick up a fuss when Jenassa led him out of the thicket. She had said the magic word. Carrots.

_Toss in a few apples, and I'll be your new best friend._

Helgath gave a snort of greeting when Jenassa emerged with Raido in tow. The fact that they had not be reduced to wolf food made her tolerate Raido, who pranced alongside her with his neck arched proudly.

When Jenassa returned to the stables, got the horses settled and fed, and their gear stored for another night, she was in desperate need of a hot bath. No doubt she would not be welcomed back at the  _Bee and Barb_  but maybe she could ask Mjoll for one last favour. It would just be for the night.

As for Felnore's whereabouts, she had a list of excuses that she could choose from. Hunting vampires would probably go over well with the city's high-minded protector.

Fighting back a yawn, Jenassa made her way to the city’s north gates just as the sky turned a deep shade of burgundy. She took a moment to watch the sun set beneath the mountain range that encased the Throat of the World and its haunting reflection that gleamed across Lake Honrich. That was when she heard the commotion.

What now?

Despite her better judgement, Jenassa went to investigate. Upon reaching the gates she saw a smattering of guards blocking the way of a scrawny Redguard youth in ill-fitting clothes that had clearly belonged to a much larger man at one time. The boy could not be older than fifteen or sixteen winters and the horse that he rode was older than time itself.

The nag's head hung between its knobby knees as it wheezed for breath. Sweat and foam dripped from its mouth and shoulders. It was clear that the poor beast had been ridden hard for miles and it did not look like it was going to live to see another sunset.

"The gates are closed. Either pay the fee or come back tomorrow."

"But I need to deliver a message."

"What did we just say? The city is closed boy. Only way you're getting in is if you pay the visitor's tax or camp out in the woods until morning, like everybody else."

"But you don't understand! I was told to come here and deliver the message without delay. I wasn't told of a visitor’s tax. I don't have the money to pay you but please, you must let me through. I need to deliver this message!"

The guards were giving the young man the shake-down treatment but Jenassa did not feel inclined to step in and help in any way. This was not her problem to solve. Let the guards have their fun.

"What's so important about this message?" One of the guards asked as he pointed his spear at the nervous rider.

"I-I don't know. But I must deliver it. To a man, a blacksmith. Do you know him?"

"Blacksmith? You mean Balimund?"

The boy shook his head.

"No. Another one. There must be another one. A man with grey hair. You would know him by the axe his carries. His name is...umm...it...something Longstride? Whitemane? Felnoof? I-I can't remember."

The guards looked at each other before they broke out laughing.

"This kid's supposed to deliver a message to a blacksmith and he don't know what his name is? That's rich!"

"What, by Talos' mighty beard, is a Felnoof? Never heard of such a thing! Ha!"

"Maybe the sprat means that Felnore bloke?"

The Redguard nearly jumped out of the saddle when the guard mentioned the name.

"Yes! Him! Felnore! That's it! I need to speak to Felnore. To deliver the message. It's important!"

From the shadow of the city wall, Jenassa closed her eyes when she heard the confirmation.

Why did these things follow them like a bad smell? What deity did they anger in their travels? Who did Felnore eat to have cursed them with such unwanted attention? They could never catch a break.

"Sorry to burst your bubble kid, but he left here hours ago."

"What? No! I rode all the way from Windhelm for days to get here, to deliver..."

"Deliver the message. We heard you the first time. But that doesn't change things. If you want to come into the city, either pay up or bugger off! What's it going to be?"

Before the kid could dig himself into a deeper hole with the guards, Jenassa stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the worn-out nag by the bridle. The horse was so spent it did not even react to her sudden presence.

"Now where did you come from?" One of the guards jumped as she shoved him out of her way.

"The lad's with me." She glared at him before she took the reins and jerked on the bit to get the gelding to move. The horse complied while its rider sat on its back, speechless.

"Before you say another word know this. You are as close to death as you will ever be right now so if you do not tell me everything about why you are here, why you wish to speak to Felnore, and what your message is, I will stick a knife in your ribs and dump your body into the lake before the sun finishes setting. Is that understood?"

When she glanced up at the rider all he could do was nod stupidly. She meant every word.

"Smart. Now speak."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter decided to take an unexpected turn. I set out to write one thing and Raido took over. I love this horse. If he had a voice actor, it would probably be John Cena with a truckload of sass. 
> 
> As for who can hear Raido, I'm leaving it up to you dear reader. What do you think? I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the brief encounter with the floofy kind. Don't worry, there is going to be actual snarling werewolf action coming your way in the next few instalments. 
> 
> ***If you want a real glimpse into what kind of relationship Felnore and Raido have, check out the music video for "Raido" by Wardruna. Just a word of caution, you might just grow an epic beard after listening to it. Can Bethesda include this in their next Elder Scrolls instalment? It literally shouts Nord!


	12. The Silver Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pappa Wolf is back and things start getting dark around here. Things begin to escalate into chaos territory. It's bad enough that Felnore is on the wrong side of the Thieves Guild, now he has to deal with wannabe wolf hunters trying to carve him up like a turkey. 
> 
> If there is one thing to be learned in all this it's that you never ever want to piss off Felnore. He will eat you. Alive. (looks at Brynjolf and grins) Enjoy!

Felnore hated full moons.

He detested waking up in an unknown place without knowing how he got there or what had happened during the darkest hours of his life.

Sometimes he would get lucky and a pack member would be close by to gauge reactions and guard each other's backs. Other times he could easily end up on the other side of the damn territory, buck naked, and utterly confused. On the nights when the moon was in her full power, the wolf took over completely and Felnore was left to its mercy. The wolf did what it wanted and went wherever it pleased. It was one of the most powerful land predators in all of Skyrim. It did not care what happened to the human who slumbered inside its fur come the dawning of the new day.

The wolf answered to no rule but its own. And for that Felnore wanted to drive his scarred fist into its large muzzle and knock its damn teeth out.

Felnore fought back the urge to purge until the ground beneath him stopped spinning. He remained perfectly and utterly still. It always took some time before his hearing returned to a normal state. The smoky smell of a coming snowfall was a tell-tale sign that he was at a higher altitude. That and the fact that it was so cold his limbs were stiff and unresponsive.

 _For the love of all things Divine_ , he prayed,  _don't let me be on top of another damn mountain._

Inhaling deeply, his lungs burning with the sudden icy chill, Felnore carefully lifted his head and opened his eyes.

Well shit.

At least this time he wasn't all the way up the towering peak.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the bright morning sunlight before he chanced a downward glance. What he saw only confirmed his worst suspicions.

The wolf had been busy last night. Very busy, if the amount of crusted gore and flecks of what looked like three types of animal fur that covered his bare skin where anything to go by.

Felnore hazard a sniff and winced. Make that five animals and an over-sized arachnid.

In one night, the wolf had managed to put a significant dent in the local wildlife population. At least none of the blood was human. Riften had been damn well lucky this month.

With a groan that should have come from a man three times his age, Felnore rolled onto his side and carefully pushed himself upright. His bones always felt brittle and arthritic the day after a lunar shift. He wasn't sure why this side effect of his condition only kept with the lunar cycle, but it made him feel older than time itself.

He loathed that feeling of aged helplessness more than he did the moon.

What he would not give for a banked campfire and a tankard of mulled wine right then. Why couldn't the wolf ever bunk down by a hot spring or in a warm nest of prairie grass? Why was it always the most remote frostbitten places in the Nine Holds?

The wolf was an asshole. Plain and simple.

Well, there was no use bellyaching about it. Who would listen? The north wind? The pile of rocks that made up a natural windbreaker? The dead she-wolf at his side?

Felnore arched an eyebrow as he took stock of his surroundings. He would have been shocked by the wolf carcass, but this was not the first time he had come back to himself only to discover that his animal nature was more carnal than he would ever want to imagine.

The wolf seemed hellbent on making up for what Felnore's self-control prevented during the rest of the month. And late winter was always a dangerous time for wild wolves. The breeding season of the local packs was an instant draw for the wolf, which was why there was hardly a natural wolfpack left in Whiterun territory. They had either been run off, eaten, or fucked out of existence. The mid-hold lands belonged to the Jorrvaskr wolves, but they only had one female in their pack, and she was claimed.

The wolf was not only an asshole, but a horny bastard that would mount anything large enough to satisfy.

That poor she-wolf. She must have led him on a merry chase halfway up the mountain before the wolf caught her. He could only hope that her end had been quick.

Felnore reached out and buried his aching fingers into the thick frost-tipped pelt as he felt for the tell-tale bite to the neck. It was a young ice wolf, no more than two years. This was probably her first heat and she had the misfortune to howl for the wrong suitor.

At least the wolf had the decency to sever the spinal column before he mated her to death.

He heaved a heavy sigh as he began the ritual of returning life back to his limbs. Each creak and crack of his joints felt like the snapping of embedded ice shards, but it had to be done. The longer he remained prone the worse off he would be. He had to get to his feet and get moving as fast as possible.

He had no idea how long he had been up there, if the wolf had been followed, if there was a hunter tracking his trail at that very moment. He had a vantage point being as high up as he was, but he had no clue as to where that was exactly. This was not his home range; these were not his mountains. He was isolated, naked, and without any weapons. He would freeze to death if he remained where he was. He had to start down the mountain and get warm or else he would be joining the she-wolf in Hircine's hallowed hunting grounds.

Felnore could only imagine what Jenassa would have to say about this. Probably something snide about his inability to resist chasing tail. Especially his own.

His legs trembled as he rose to his feet. The wind hissed as it caught hold of the tangled matted mess that was his hair and tugged him toward the edge of the deer trail. He was high enough for there to be a few inches of packed snow on the ground, the type of snow that only melted during the height of the warmest months. Down the side of the mountain was a cascade of snow and rock, with the odd lifeless scrub brush clinging desperately to any rocky outcrop it could find.

He looked up over his shoulder and noted the position of the sun against the seemingly endless peak that vanished into a cloud of mist. He must be on the southern side of the Throat. Any higher and he would have frozen after the shift.

He had been lucky. Just how lucky still remained to be seen.

With no other choice but to take the path downward, Felnore began the slow descent. He followed the torn-up trail of pawprints, careful to step in them as best he could. Running up a mountain on all fours with a stride that was twice the length of a horse's was a heck of a lot easier than trying to climb down one barefoot and shivering.

It took him a full hour before the snow gave way to dirt and shale. By the time his frozen feet touched grass, his lips were blue and bloodied footprints followed in his wake. He forced himself to remain upright as he stumbled over an uneven foothold and swore loudly. He would have stopped to rest if he could, but he was still a ways off from the tree line. He was too exposed being out in the open like this.

For the fifth time that morning he cursed the very nature of his condition. If he had been told from the get-go that this was what he would have to deal with every month, he never would have agreed to receive the mark.

But that was in the past and there was no changing it. The best he could hope for now was that Jenassa would pick up his trail and find him before the sun shifted to the other side of the mountain. He did not fancy the idea of walking all the way back to Riften, bare-arsed and footsore. That could take all day, if not longer.

Mulling over the possibility of attempting a partial shift so soon after the last one, Felnore was too lost in thought to pick up on the soft creak of a bowstring going taunt. Had he not slipped on a loose rock right then, the silver-tipped arrow that flew past his head would have lodged itself in his throat.

Hunters. They had found him.

Felnore went down on all fours instinctively as the whistle of another arrow shaft gave away the position of the archer. He did not stop to think about the odds or how feral he must look charging down the path covered head to foot in a patchwork brown flaking blood and gristle. The bowman did not hesitate to pepper the space around him with deadly bolts of debilitating silver capped arrowheads. One found its mark but Felnore did not break stride as he pulled the arrow out of his burning thigh and threw himself off the path with a full-throated Nordic battle cry.

The momentum behind the powerful lunge carried him further than what was humanly possible. The loaded arrow did not have a chance to fly before Felnore came crashing down like a thunderbolt onto the head of his would-be killer. The bolt in his hand was returned to its rightful owner with a solid thrust through the man's left eye, the ridged arrowhead burying deep into his brain.

The hunter dropped without a sound as Felnore took up the bastard sword the man wore at his hip. It was no weighted axe, but it fit his hand well enough. Snarling under his breath, Felnore did not stop moving as he bolted toward the distant trees as the crashing sounds of pursuit followed him down the mountain.

Werewolf hunters never tracked their intended targets alone. Painful experience had taught him that. The man he had killed was only the point scout. There would be at least three more of them on his trail and they would not stop the hunt until he was dead.

Felnore was a blur as he bounded and leaped from boulder to brush with the tenacity of a hard-pressed mountain goat. There was enough of the wolf close to the surface that in the heat of the adrenaline rush, he did not feel the strain of his tendons nor the scream-inducing agony of his jarred joints as he ran for cover.

The hunters were after a hefty prize, but they had made the mistake of tracking him cautiously. Had they wanted his pelt; they should have shot him full of arrows when the wolf was shaft-deep in the she-wolf. Now they were going to pay for their costly miscalculation.

He reached the tree line and rolled out of sight from the onslaught of arrows that ripped through the branches like a swarm of angry hornets. He stayed low, moving on his hands and feet with the sword tucked to his chest in order to remain as small a target as possible. He only paused to catch his breath as he listened for the tell-tale movements of the hunters fanning out to surround him. 

It was a smart move. But they were too cautious. They were afraid of him.

They should be.

Felnore braced his back against a large oak and he gritted his teeth as he drove his thumb into the wound in his thigh. He grunted from the pain but did not let up as he twisted his finger in deeper. The nerves in his thigh twitched in agony until he could no longer stand it. Blood began to stream freely down his leg as he hooked his thumb and jerked upward. The wound was now twice the size and three times as bloody. But at least it was cleared.

The longer any silver remained under his skin, the worse off he would be. As long as the blood flowed, any trace of the poisonous element would run free from his veins before it could spread and infect the rest of the leg. He had seen first-hand what prolonged silver poisoning could do to a wolf and the end result was the stuff of nightmares.

A snapped stick drew his attention and the flash of sunlight off polished metal blinded him. His sword arm came up but not fast enough to avoid the stinging lash of a whip as the braided leather snaked around his wrist and yanked the sword from his grasp.

"Got you now dog!" Brave words were sputtered from the second hunter as he jerked the whip forward and brought down his silver-reinforced steel shield onto Felnore's head.

Time slowed by a fraction of a moment as two things happened.

First, Felnore shut his eyes against the searing sting of the blinding metal. Second, the would-be victor had only seconds to live before Felnore's free hand ripped up through his abdomen and tore out his innards.

"No, you don't." Felnore snarled as he jerked the man's lungs with such force that everything else tumbled out of the jagged hole where his stomach should have been.

First rule of hunting werewolves; never ever get close enough to be grabbed.

The heavy shield fell uselessly to the ground as the dying hunter slipped into shock. There wasn't so much as a bloody gurgle from him as Felnore dug through the mess of entrails and organs until he found what he wanted. Slick and black with hot blood, the man's liver quivered in the five long black butchers' hooks extended out from his hand. Blazing eyes and elongated canine teeth completed the wolf man image as he tore ravenously at the oozing piece of choicest meat.

"Thanks for that." A fresh layer of blood dyed his beard and chest as he swallowed the final morsel whole. There was no time to pick at the remains while two other would-be wolf killers stalked through the forest. He would have to come back to finish the feed. But now, the odds were on his side.

A single human liver was potent enough to make his blood race and carry out a partial change. The arrow wound in his leg had begun to heal and his joints were fluid and flexible once more. 

Three iron-rich servings would see him swiftly to the wooden walls of the Rift's capital in a quarter of the time. It was not the most ideal situation but who was he to pass up such an opportunity? They had made the mistake of hunting him.

Now he was returning the favour.

It did not take long for the remaining hunters to find the mauled remains of their companion. The man and woman, both armed to the teeth with an assortment of silver coated weapons, were not so confident and moved about with the upmost caution. Back-to-back with their weapons drawn, they inspected the area in search of wolf tracks leading away from the kill. But they came up with nothing.

"Where did it go?"

"Must be around here somewhere."

"But where? There are no tracks. It couldn't have just vanished. They don't do that."

"The beast is here, watching us. Be ready for when it attacks."

Perched in the sturdy branches of the oak tree, Felnore remained silent until the two idiots were right beneath him. He waited for the perfect moment before he gave a cheery whistle. Not the easiest thing to do with inch-long canines jutting from his gums.

The duo looked up as Felnore came down, shield in one hand and sword in the other. The sword burrowed into the man's chest, its point jutting out between the floating rib and kidney while the unfortunate sot drowned in a lungful of his own blood. The woman was quicker and avoided having her skull crushed from the sharp edge of the shield as her own sword tried to snake through Felnore's defense.

It had the makings of a fast-stepping textbook routine but Felnore was not in the mood to dance. The shield blocked her thrusts and jabs until one high-swing cost her precious seconds. Felnore's teeth found the hollow of her throat and tore through the delicate veins and windpipe with a swift bite.

"Why is it that you cattle brains never bother to look up?" He spat out a mouthful of cartilage and knelt beside the dying woman. She was in no position to answer.

His eyes cooled as hers went dark and once she was gone, he got to work. Hands that no longer sported lethal claws searched her possessions until he found a sheaf of worn parchment bearing an all too familiar mark of a stylized handprint. The wax seal was old, but the writing could still be made out.

It was a bounty notice. A hundred gold septims for every werewolf head collected. A full pelt garnered two hundred. Any wolf pelt of a different colour other than black, with the emphasis on russet and grey, went for upward of five hundred septims.

Five hundred septims!

No wonder these fools had tried to follow him up a mountain. His hide was worth a fortune.

Felnore snorted in disgust as he kept reading. There was a line at the end that made the hairs long his neck and arms prickle with unease.

One thousand gold pieces for whoever could bring the head and pelt of the illusive and rare white wolf.

As far as Felnore knew, there was only one white werewolf left in Skyrim and the old man had not left the safety of Jorrvaskr for some time. If there was a bounty on Kodlak Whitemane's head, it was personal.

The Silver Hand were getting bold. Too bold. They would have to be dealt with once and for all.

Folding the notice, Felnore stepped over the woman's body and went over to the skewered man. He should have taken his head off instead of running him through. There was no way to salvage the tunic he wore under his plain leather armour but at least the boots and fur-lined kilt should fit.

Taking what he needed, Felnore stripped the bodies and gathered up whatever clothing and supplies he deemed useful. The notice was tucked away in a leather pouch while the weapons were left with the remains of the hunters. He had lost his appetite and the remnants of human flesh that were stuck between his teeth left a horrible acidic aftertaste in his mouth. The choicest of meats had turned rancid and soured his stomach. He would leave the bodies for the creatures of the forest to fight over. His gift to the local wolf pack by way of an apology of sorts.

He could not stay in this place. The sooner he found Jenassa the quicker he could get back to Whiterun and warn the Circle. The Silver Hand, those self-professed werewolf exterminators, were plotting something. He could feel in gut and his instincts were never wrong.

But first, he needed a source of running water to scrub the carnage off his body before the smell became permanent. Nothing was more nauseating to his nose than the sour stink of human carrion.

How quickly the glorious victory of the hunt turned into shameful regret.

That was another thing Felnore hated. The revulsion and self-loathing that came with being a man-eater.


	13. Wolf's Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you are not screaming "RUN Felnore RUN!" by the end of this chapter, I am not doing my job properly. If so, let me know, and I will raise stakes so high it will take the likes of Alduin to fly over them. But as things are, a city is going to burn and a father needs to do the impossible to get there before it does. 
> 
> Will Felnore make it in time? What do you think?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to meet the goofy yet loveable Redguard tag-along Aturos Vasfa, who wants nothing more than to one day be a great adventurer and hero of the peoples. He has a very (let me stress very) long way to go, but you always have to start somewhere right?
> 
> Since this story has now turned into a mixture of Skyrim, Game of Thrones, Ridley Scott's King Arthur, and Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the chapters are long. Some I have had to cut in half and post them separate or else we'd be here all night. I aim to get one out every week (sometimes every two weeks depending on how detailed the chapter needs to be). I will try to post as close to Wednesdays as possible. This is not a short fic by any means. It's Game of Holds, Werewolf Edition. Just wanted to let you know now for the long haul ahead. Will it be intense? Yes. Will it be hilarious? Yes. Will it get hella graphic? Oh yeah...it will. (cracks knuckles)
> 
> But will Felnore die?
> 
> I sure as heck hope not but a lot of characters will!
> 
> It's going to be awesome so full steam ahead!
> 
>  
> 
> For the record: Felnore and Ulfric cannot be in the same room together. This is important because...Book Three. (rifles through piles of notebooks) Pappa Bear and Pappa Wolf will never ever be friends. Just saying. Heh.
> 
> On that note...RUN PAPPA WOLF! MOVE THAT TAIL!!!!!!!!

For the umpteenth time that morning, Jenassa's hand strayed to the hilt of her dagger and caressed the well-worn piece of antler that encased it. She envisioned herself slicing off the youth's tongue and cooking it over the open campfire before serving it to him with a side of grilled leeks. Maybe with one of the coal-baked potatoes as well.

Wouldn't that be lovely?

A grim smile ghosted across her lips as she carefully turned the sizzling chunks of fresh-caught venison on their wooden skewers to make sure the meat was cooked evenly. The heady smell of wood smoke and meat filled their little clearing midst the golden birch trees whose leaves glittered regally in the mid-day sunlight.

"But what if he's hurt? Or what if it's worse! What if he was killed? He could have been attacked and eaten by a vampire. Did you know that vampires roam these woods? I heard it from a guard back in Windhelm who said he saw one once. They're supposed to be terrible and practically impossible to kill. They come at you from the darkness, quick fast so you don't even hear them until they sink their teeth into your neck. And when that happens, you're lucky if you end up dead!"

"If you do not stop talking, you will find my teeth in your neck and I can assure you, Aturos Vasfa, I am no vampire."

Jenassa stoked the fire with an ashy stick to check on the progress of the root vegetables that she had pilfered from a measly vegetable stall back in Riften city. A few sprouting spuds and a twisted turnip were a pathetic form of payment but seeing how no one woke to the sounds of terrified screams that morning, she would take her due where she could.

The wolf had not breeched the city walls last night. The locals slept soundly in their beds, unaware of what stalked the shadows of their forests. They would be safe for another month without ever realizing how close death had come to their very doorstep.

The young Redguard youth, Aturos Vasfa of no particular family or place, went quiet has he pondered what other horrible outcomes the man whom he had been sent to deliver a message to could have possibly faced during the night.

"Have you...ever met a vampire?" He asked her after a minute.

"Yes." She replied. "And I have slain my share of them. Before you ask, they are as horrible as the stories you have been told. Now be quiet and stop fidgeting. It is annoying."

Aturos grimaced at her tone as he nervously fiddled with a stick that he had taken from a nearby tree. He had intended to help the dark elf prepare the midday meal, but any time he inched closer to the fire, Jenassa would glare at him. It was better if he just stayed put and waited. For what, he didn't know, but if the lady with the weapons said that they were going to wait in the clearing, then they were going to do just that.

His empty stomach growled in protest. It had been hours since that stale sweet roll he had eaten for breakfast.

"How can you be sure that he's all right? Shouldn't we keep looking for him? I mean, he's out here, somewhere, alone, in this forest...," Aturos gave a dramatic gesture to the wilderness around them, "he could be lost. How can anyone find their way in this place without a road...or a map...or a guide? It's so big. Everything looks the same."

Jenassa muttered something about milk drinkers under her breath as the jittery nattering began once more.

City folk. Scared of their own shadows as soon as they took a single step off a well-marked trail.

"Child, I will only explain myself once, so you better pay attention. Felnore is not lost. Nor is he dead or eaten by dragons or skinned by orcs or whatever else you have cooked up in your wild imagination. There is no point for us to continue wandering about. We have come far enough. We will stay put and Felnore will come to us."

"But-"

"He will find us."

"How-"

"As soon as he is able."

"Okay, I hear what you're saying, but how do you  _know?_  Is it an elf thing? Do you have special powers or something? Are you a mage? I heard that Dark Elves have the ability to do magic, all kinds of magic, because of where you come from...Is it true that your people live in giant mushrooms? What is that like? Do you eat them?"

And the round of twenty questions began once more, despite the elf assassin's best attempts to put a civil end to the never-ending chatter.

Her hand itched to remove the dagger and give the boy something to really think about, but she checked the urge. He did have an important message to deliver and she could not interfere with what the fates had decreed. This was the will of the old gods.

But gagging the young man was not beyond the realm of possibility.

"Here. Catch."

"What...ah! Hot! Hot! Burning hands! Owwww."

Thankfully a charred potato held enough intrigue to refocus his endless curiosity as he tried to figure out how to properly eat it without burning his fingers. Aturos had never in his life eaten a baked potato before.

It was a challenge that he was determined to conquer.  


Real roughing-it-in-the-wild kind of food! The stuff adventurers ate when they were on a noble quest. He was kind of on a quest, having a message to deliver and all. He was no hero of legend, not yet, but this was a step in the right direction.

Today a potato, tomorrow the world.

Despite his smarting fingertips, Aturos grinned before he bit into the spud, ashy skin and all.

"Ack!"

The potato bit back and scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Aturos did not dare spit out the mouthful of burning mush as Jenassa regarded him with those creepy unreadable eyes of hers. He did not dare offend the elf assassin's cooking, even if it was trying to kill him from the inside out.

"Good?" She asked.

"Mmmhmm."

Aturos gave a weak smile as he hazard a chew before swallowing. It burned all the way down.

It was not that bad. Could use some butter though. And a pinch of salt. Some fresh herbs would be nice. Could a potato be baked into a pie? What about bread?

Now that was an interesting thought.

Jenassa enjoyed the moment of quiet as Aturos pondered the many mysterious uses of the potato. She sliced off a chunk of meat and wedged it onto her dagger point. Out in the wilderness, there was no need for cutlery. She took a bite and kept one eye on her horse as she chewed slowly.

Helgath's sense of smell was never to be misjudged. That mare could smell a wolf a mile off and when she did, she made it known.

Sure enough, Helgath eventually pinned her ears back and stomped a hoof in warning.

Jenassa took up a skewer and lifted the largest hunk of deer haunch away from the flames. Juices dripped off the lean meat as she tested it with her dagger to make sure that it was cooked through.

Not that it really mattered.

"Took you long enough." She mused as she held the skewer over her shoulder.

Aturos, who was busy peeling the potato skin, looked up with a start as a large calloused hand appeared behind Jenassa and took her offering without a word.

The elf chuckled at the expression on the young man's face as his jaw dropped in astonishment. Felnore always did make quite the impression after spending an entire night chasing the moon. Especially when he was wearing someone else's clothes.

At least he had shown up somewhat decent.

"Looks like you had an interesting night." She regarded Felnore closely. She noted how his hair was curled and damp and the traces of blood under his nails. He appeared whole and hearty, but it was always difficult to tell so soon after the waking moon.

Felnore refused to answer.

He crouched beside the small campfire and tore ravenously into the roasted deer. He did not bother to chew, only tear and swallow, as the portion quickly vanished. Without comment, Jenassa handed him another piece, smaller this time, and watched it quickly disappeare.

Felnore grunted his thanks as the meat began to ease the gnawing ache in his gut that had worsened throughout the morning. The change always took a hard toll on him. On days like these, he had to eat twice his usual amount just remain functional.

There was a valid reason why the wolf was driven to excess by the blinding need to devour everything and anything it encountered. A single night on four paws could burn through a week's worth of fat reserves before the body began to feed on itself.

Jenassa often commented on the notable habit of constant eating that the Companions of Jorrvaskr were renowned for. It wasn't until she witnessed Felnore put away a young doe on the day of a full moon that the odd behavior became clear.

A starving werewolf was a dead werewolf. No silver required.

"Another?"

Felnore did not look away from the curling flames as he gave a swift nod.

Without a doubt human flesh was the preferred meat of the wolf, but it wreaked utter havoc on Felnore's system when he was not sporting his fur coat. The raw liver had not stayed down for very long before it ended up on the bank of a glacier-fed stream, right along with everything else the wolf had gorged itself on that night.

Finding bits of partially digested red squirrel in the mix, Felnore had shoved his fingers down his throat until the tail finally came back up. He refused to spend the next two days in agony as his body fought and failed to break down rodent fur just because the wolf liked to play games. Those bushy-tailed rats were impossible to digest but the wolf loved to snap them up anyway whenever it had the chance.

"Here. Take a breath and wash it down with this."

Felnore took the wineskin and drained it in four deep pulls. The dark mixture of low-grade healing potions combined with watered down ale and a special concoction of herbs that he always kept secreted in his saddle bags soothed his raw throat and tortured stomach.

"Thanks." He coughed; his vocal chords rough from overuse.

"Rough morning?"

Jenassa noted the fur-lined leather kilt that fit snug at his waist. It was a good thing she had packed a spare set of clothes in Radio's saddlebags because there was no way he could ride in that getup.

"Mmph." Came the tell-tale growl as he finally sat and carefully stretched out his left leg. An ugly hand-sized bruise had formed where the arrowhead had struck him, but the scab had already peeled away and left an ugly white line in its place.

"Mmph indeed."

If it wasn't the silver weapons that etched markings into his skin every month, it was the claws and teeth of other werewolves. As a wolf, Felnore never could leave well enough alone. The thick white scar that gouged his left side was a haunting reminder of what could happen if he ventured out into the Holds without someone to watch his back.

"Well, I know that you are not in the mood to talk, but you still have the ability to listen." The Dark Elf pulled the well-cooked turnip out of the ashes and stuck a skewer through it. She would have offered it to Felnore, but he was too distracted by the stunned Redguard youth gawking at him from across the campfire to notice it.

Jenassa looked from Felnore to Aturos and back again as she waited for someone to say something. When nothing happened, she claimed the turnip for herself.

"Felnore, this is Aturos Vasfa. He has something he would like to say to you. Give him a chance to speak before you start barking at him."

Felnore slowly shifted his gaze from the young man as Jenassa gave him a toothy smile.

"I do not bark." Felnore growled.

"Experience tells a different tale." She bit the tip off the turnip with relish.

"Speak boy. Why are you here?"

"Oh, that's polite. Just growl at him without so much as an informal greeting."

Aturos swallowed hard as he looked between the two adults and for the first time that day, wondered which one was the safer bet.

"I..." Aturos' voice came out as a high squeak that had nothing to do with the tingling on his tongue. "I mean, you're...Felnore?"

Felnore remembered to blink as he stared the young man down until he looked away.

"Yes."

Jenassa laughed to herself as she nibbled at the vegetable. Felnore was always as pissy as a wet sabercat so soon after a full moon. And the menfolk complained that women were the ornery ones during a lunar cycle.

Bunch of hypocrites.

Aturos locked his fingers together as he tried to sort himself out. He had been sent all this way to deliver a message, a message that he had recited over and over again until he could mumble it in his sleep. But now that he had to deliver it, he wanted nothing more than to swallow his tongue and hide under a large rock.

Something about the large bearded Nord made him nervous. Maybe it was the fact that the man looked more than capable of crushing Aturos' skull with one hand. Or maybe it was because Aturos had a sinking suspicion that the Nord wanted to eat him alive.

He was big enough after all. And scary. And his eyes seemed to stare right through him. He did not look impressed.

Did all Nords have beards that long?

This was a lot of warrior that Aturos had zero experience in dealing with. All of the other seasoned fighters that he had come across in his wayward wandering were of different races and fighting styles.

Even though Felnore did not have any weapons on him, he still looked like he was just about ready to reach through the fire and break every bone in his body if Aturos did not get the words right.

Aturos had to get the words right. He just did.

"I have a message for you. From Windhelm. Well, from Stenvar who is in Windhelm. You do know who Stenvar is, right? He said you did. He said you two met a few years ago. That is why he sent me to find you. So I can tell you what he said. Because he said that it was very important."

Aturos did not know what his mouth was doing. In his mind, the message was a clear as it was the day the Nord mercenary had forced him to recite it ten times over before he was satisfied. He had spent the last week preparing for this very moment, when he would deliver the important missive But the words! Everything was coming out jumbled and sideways.

All Felnore did was arch an eyebrow and Aturos shook to pieces as his tongue tripped over itself.

"I do believe you frighten him." Jenassa pointed out helpfully, fully enjoying watching the scene play itself out. All morning the young Redguard would not shut up. And now that it was his time to speak, he floundered miserably.

"I haven't done anything." Felnore ran his fingers through his hair and pulled out a stubborn twig that was buried in the thick of it. "Aturos right? Why don't you start again and tell me why Stenvar just didn't write it out on a scroll and have you give it to me?"

It was a simple enough question. And an easy one to answer.

Aturos cleared his throat, swallowed, cleared it again before he took a deep breath. He could do this.

"Stenvar is really not that great with spelling out words. I offered to do it for him, I'm really good at writing, but he said this was too important to write down. That only I should know it so that no one else can trace it back to him."

Felnore nodded slowly and gestured Aturos to continue.

"So, this is what he told me to tell you, and only you. But your lady friend has assured me that whatever you know, she knows, so is it okay if I tell her too?"

Jenassa nudged Felnore in the arm with her elbow. "Is it all right if I know your secrets?"

"You already do. Go ahead Aturos, it's fine."

Aturos straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. He could do this as well as any professional courier.

"The message is this. Word for word from Stenvar himself."

_The great bear has awoken from his winters rest._

_Wolves are no match for his might nor hunger._

_Soon the time will come when wolf and bear shall meet,_

_In a fight neither can win._

_The bear is on the move,_

_hunting white horses across the plains._

_Beware his wrath. Beware his rage._

_The white wolf is dead._

_The den discovered, the cubs in danger._

_The white wolf is no more._

_Take care and beware._

A log popped, sending sparks skyward, as Aturos breathed in relief. He had recited the message exactly as he had practiced. He shifted in his seat as he waited to hear what Felnore and Jenassa thought of it. He had no idea what any of it meant but maybe they did.

Jenassa let the words settled in her mind. Stenvar was never one for flowery language or poetry, so the wording was off-putting. If Stenvar went to such lengths to hide the meaning, it was of the upmost importance.

Wolves, bears, and horses. It all sounded like a poorly written ballad, but these three animals are were too familiar to her. And to Felnore.

"Are you all right?"

A shiver touched her skin as she watched Felnore turn bone white in the warm sunlight. It looked like the very life source had been drained from his body.

"He doesn't look so good." Aturos pointed out nervously because Felnore's eyes were suddenly too bright to be human.

"Get up!" Jenassa was suddenly on her feet, reaching for her sword that was resting on the ground beside her.

"What's wrong?" Aturos was not sure what was going on. The dark elf grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and hauled him away from the campfire so quickly he stumbled after her. "Was it something I said?"

"Get on that stallion and whatever you do, do not fall off." Jenassa hissed as she boosted Aturos onto Raido's back as the war horse gave a snort of alarm. Helgath's ears were non-existent as they pressed into her skull. She snapped her teeth in fear as Jenassa moved between the horses. 

Aturos was at a loss as he clung to the pommel of the saddle. What had he said that was so bad?

"Felnore!" Jenassa emerged from the nervous huddle clutching what looked like a dirty bundle of rags. Felnore had not moved from where he sat but Aturos wasn't sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

The warrior looked bigger than he had a moment ago. And hairier.

"Remember to breathe through it. You can't afford another shift so soon. See this? Remember this? What is this?" The bundle of rags was thrown at him and Jenassa's aim was dead accurate. The missile bounced off Felnore's chest and landed at his feet.

"What is that?" Aturos blurted out before he could stop himself.

Jenassa kept her attention on Felnore as she remained close to the horses. "Our one saving grace."

"Huh?"

"Shut up!"

For once, Aturos did what he was told.

Felnore's presence in the clearing expanded along with the rest of him. The forest went quiet as the wolf threatened to claw its way to the surface. The message, the words, he knew what they meant. The wolf knew it too. They were both furious beyond reckoning.

The planes of his face took on that familiar ache as his teeth crowded his mouth. The wolf peered out from behind a mane of silver hair and all it saw was red. Red, the colour of blood. Red, the colour of meat. Red, the colour of revenge.

It heard its name being called. A familiar scent struck it, a scent it missed most of all.

Fur began to bristle down its spine in anger. Pack was in danger. Pups threatened. No one threatened its young. It would kill the threat. Devour it. Protect its own.

The scent of the pups was near.

Where were they? Were they hurt? Were they scared?

The wolf bent forward, on twisted limbs, inhaling frantically through the blinding pain in its face. The smell led it to a small cloth bundle. It buried its nose in the object and sniffed deeply.

Pups.

_Eva. Jonna._

Pups.

_Children._

Its pups.

_Eva! Jonna!_

His pups.

His children.

His girls.

His daughters were in danger.

Kodlak Whitemane was dead.

The Companions were in danger.

Whiterun was in danger.

"Keep breathing. Think of the girls."

A reassuring hand touched his bare shoulder as the forest slowly came back to life. Felnore panted hard as his fingers curled around the battered cloth doll that lay in front of him. At one time it had been all shades of vibrant colour but after years of love and abuse, the raggedy poppet was washed out. All of its stringy hair was gone, it was missing a beaded eye. But there was no denying what it was.

The first doll he had ever made for his youngest daughter. One of Eva's most treasured possessions.

"I have to go to them." He croaked like an old crow.

The wolf had almost snapped out of his skin that time. It was too strong to hold back for long.

Had it not been for Jenassa's quick thinking...

"What do you need me to do?" She murmured in his ear as she crouched down next to him, blocking him from Aturos' view.

"Take the horses. Ride as hard as you can back to Whiterun. Don't send messengers. The roads will be watched. Ulfric is making an attack on Whiterun with his Stormcloak army. If you come across any Imperial troops, let them know. Tell them the Companions of Jorrvaskr call for their aide. Ulfric means to take the city and destroy it. He wants to send a message."

Felnore clenched his eyes shut at the very thought of Whiterun in flames. His family lived within the walls of that keep. Not just his daughters. There was an entire line of Greymanes that dwelled there for as long as the Dragonsreach has stood tall.

He had to get there ahead of that army. He had to warn the Jarl.

"It will take four days for me to get there, three if I stop only to rest the horses. What do I do with the boy?"

If Felnore asked it of her, she would make the boy's end quick and painless.

"Take him with you. You need a rider for Raido. Find out all you can from him, whatever he knows about Windhelm could be useful to us. Do not stop unless you have to and don't get yourself killed. I need you in this fight."

Jenassa took his trembling hand in her steady one and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"I will be there with my blades drawn and eager to spill Nord blood. You have my word."

"I hold you to it."

"What road will you take?"

Felnore did not dare shake his head as he sat up and opened his eyes. The reflective sheen of the wolf was still there, watching, waiting.

"No roads. I'll go south of the Throat, through the mountains. There should still be an old deer trail that leads to Helgen. After the sun sets, I'll head north with the river. I should be at Whiterun by dawn. I only hope that I can get there ahead of Ulfric."

"I have no doubt you will. But that is a long time to run as a wolf Felnore. Can you handle it?"

Jenassa had every right to ask that question. The full moon was past, but its influence would be felt for a few days. Another evening in his fur, running across some of the most treacherous mountain landscapes in Skyrim, could ask more of the wolf than it might be able to give.

"I-we can. We must. The wolf will run down the moon if it has to. I just need to keep it on track. If there is one thing we can agree on, it's the girls. If they are threatened, the wolf would eat the heart of a god to keep them safe."

Jenassa studied him for a long moment before she made up her mind.

"Very well. Run to make the winds envious of you. Just try not to do anything stupid until I can get back to you. Promise me Felnore."

Felnore leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers, their hands clasped tight.

"I promise. And you can kick my ass from here to Oblivion if I break it."

"Deal."

Jenassa slapped him hard on the shoulder as she rose to her feet, taking the cloth doll with her.

"Leave the swayback and a pair of breeches. And don't kill the boy. We might need him."

"Fine. Take the fun out of everything."

"Jenassa."

"Don't worry. I shall guard him as I do you."

"Make sure Raido doesn't break him."

"That I cannot do. Your horse makes his own mind."

Jenassa returned to the horses and withdrew an old pair of cloth breeches out of his saddlebags. She left them on the ground before handing up Raido's reins to Aturos.

Sitting on the war horse's broad back, Aturos mirrored a scrawny scarecrow that was all knobby limbs and big eyes. Felnore's horse was going to make him wish that he had been born female by the time they reached Whiterun.

"What's going on?" Aturos asked, confusion as plain as the sky was blue. He awkwardly clutched the reins in both hands, not quite sure what he was supposed to do sitting on a horse that was the size of a house.

"Congratulations. You've been promoted to Felnore's squire boy. Stay on that horse and keep up. We have a long ride ahead of us. If you start asking me questions, I will leave you behind. You have been warned."

Jenassa swung onto Helgath's back and raised her hand in farewell.

"Right. Sure. I won't say a word. Not a sound. Starting now."

Aturos was baffled beyond belief but the notion of being apprenticed to a warrior duo did not escape his notice. He was going to be a part of an adventure. Like a true warrior. On a real war horse.

Today a potato, tomorrow the world indeed!

Raido turned his head and eyeballed the string bean on his back.

_Oh, we're going to have fun._

"But what about Felnore? His weapons, his armour. His horse! Where is he going?"

Jenassa reached over and grabbed Raido's bridle, forcing the war horse to follow her as she led Aturos out of the clearing so that he would not have a chance to look behind him.

"Do not worry about Felnore. He will fly to his home and meet us there."

Aturos blinked. "He can fly?"

"On the back of a dragon."

"He can fly on dragons?!?!"

Jenassa scowled.

"A figure of speech. He has his own method of travel that you are not privy to know. Now ride."

With that Jenassa put her heels to Helgath's side and the mare took off at a steady canter.

Aturos, caught up in the moment, gave Raido a hefty kick to encourage him to follow. All that did was persuade the grey war horse to take the bit between his teeth and take off at a jostling gallop, with Aturos bouncing painfully in the saddle like a sack of grain as he struggled to hang on.

Felnore waited for the hoofbeats to fade before getting painfully to his feet. He cleared the area of any trace of their presence before he tore off the fur-lined kilt and tossed it up into the branches of a tree where no one would think to look. All that was left was the tired old horse that had not been bothered by Felnore's presence.

The reason became clear when he approached the nag. The poor creature was half blind and stone deaf.

How it had made it this long was a mystery but despite its failing health, it lifted its head high enough to peer at Felnore with a rheumy eye.

_Well, get on with it then._

Felnore patted its neck and the horse sighed.

_Better you than what else lives in these cursed parts. Make it quick, will you? I don't want to spend all day dying. Lived too damn long for that._

It only took moments for the old horse to fall to its knees and bleed out into the grass.

Felnore waited until the horse took its final gasp before he eviscerated the animal and tore into the organ meat. First the liver, then the heart, and then the lungs. By the time his teeth severed the tendons in the haunch, there was little left of the boney nag and Felnore was glorious once more.

Fur, fang, and claw, the wolf was ready to run.

And run he did. 


	14. Wind Guide You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to the "Wind Guide You" Skyrim OST track while writing this chapter and it just fits with the flow and imagery of the wolf and words. Especially at the end. Enjoy the audible experience!
> 
> Also werewolves are not dwemer machines. They are not invincible. Pappa Wolf is not the Terminator. He has his limitations like every other living thing in Skyrim. So it begs to wonder, what happens now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many feels are a-comin' down the track so make way for the SquishyHeart Express. Woo woo!!!!
> 
> If you are ever bored, go back and re-read some of your favourite chapters. I am always editing them and added new hints and tasty tid-bits in them so there is always something new to discover. The wonders of a work-in-progress I tell ya.

_I am here!_

Felnore's deep baritone echoed across craggy peaks of mountains so old, their deep-seated memories were lost to time. The moaning wind rose to form a harmonious duet as the howl was carried off far and wide.

Again, and again, the call went out, seeking an answer.

Eventually, a voice did howl back, high toned and clear.

_I hear you!_

Large furred ears swivelled forward as the big grey wolf listened intently to the answering howl. It come from no wolf that he had encountered before.

_Who are you? Why are you here? Answer!_

This was a she-wolf, a seasoned matriarch of these parts, who demanded answers from his calling. These were her lands. Her word was law.

Felnore shook off a blanket of fresh snow as he sat up and lifted his nose to the sky.

_Traveler. Not threat. Seek passage. Warning! Hunters! Danger! Threat to all wolves. Beware. Pack in danger. Warning!_

The wind ferried the response swiftly across the frozen planes of the desolate mountain range. A friend to all wolf kind, the wind brought with it the scent of promise and pack, as Felnore waited to see if he would be granted safe passage through foreign territory.

He carefully licked the torn pads of his paws where ice shards and frozen shale had stripped away the protective tufts of fur from between the toe-pads and left all four paws raw and bloodied. Hours of hard running through chest-deep snow and over frozen rock had put a heavy strain on his body. Despite the nagging fear that nipped at his heels, he had no choice but to finally stop to rest when the exertion became too much.

It was a good thing he did. Running pell-mell into another pack's territory was just as dangerous as running head-first into a wall of silver spikes. Only the other wolves would not show any mercy if they caught him.

Minutes passed and his tongue worried a sliver of flint from his forepaw. If his request was denied, the race back to Whiterun would take even longer. Already, the night sky was deepening overhead. A smattering of early stars had begun to shine through. Time was running out.

He would have to outpace the moon as it crossed the horizon if he was to make it back in time. If the sun beat him to it, all could be lost.

Finally, the wind brought back favourable news.

_Run on stranger! Do not stop! To stop means death! Warning!_

The matriarch had granted him passage. He was free to journey through her territory without the fear of being hunted down and punished for trespassing. Finally, something had gone right for a change.

_Understood! I go!_

Giving his paw a final lick, Felnore stretched out his spine and took up the tattered cloth trousers in his teeth before he began his descent. The heady smell of pine sap and fir needles trained his nose toward the right path as solid sheets of ancient ice merged with fresh snow. Although speed was of the essence, it would be a dead wolf's gambit to run across an unknown landscape without any caution to guide his steps. One mis-step could mean broken bones and a slow agonizing death.

_Wind guide you. Run, traveler, run home!_

A shiver of pleasure joined the sweeping tail wag of gratitude as a cacophony of howls rose into the night. The matriarch's pack had gathered to her and lifted their voices to sing out the ancient song of greeting that all wolves knew in their marrow.

_Sing the Moon a song of solace_

_Sing the Moon a song of space_

_Sing the Moon a song of oneness_

_Sing together in this place_

To any wolf within hearing range, this was an open invitation. To sing, unfettered by fear or hunger, was a glorious thing and when one wolf sang the song, the rest joined in. Across the hold, a multitude of noses pointed at the moon as more voices sounded out from the deep forests that lay beyond the mountain's reach.

Despite the danger that dogged his steps, Felnore appreciated the show of solidarity. It was dangerous for a pack to howl together in these times. It gave away their position to any potential threat that might be listening.

And threats were everywhere across Skyrim.

However, desperate times calls for desperate measures. The threat to one pack was the threat to them all. All wolves knew this and so they sang.

The serenade continued well into the darkest hours of the night as Felnore kept a steady pace as he loped into the thick black forests that covered the Falkreath Hold. This was the land of towering pines, plentiful prey, and dark secrets. The packs who claimed this part of the world as their own did not often tolerate outsiders crossing their borders.

  
Once swallowed up by the trees, Felnore slowed to a steady trot. The wolf wanted to run on, despite the exhaustion that pinched his joints with every step. The pack was in danger yet Felnore would not allow for wild instinct to override reason.

He had not ventured into these parts for the better part of a year. Much could have changed during that time. He had to be cautious. The local werewolf pack may have granted him the privilege to be there, but the pockets of humanity that had settled in these woods were another matter entirely.

He had to tread lightly.

There was something not quite right in these woods.

Felnore gave himself a good hard shake to remove the unsettled feeling that made the fur along his spine bristle. Keeping one ear cocked out of caution, Felnore gave into time's demands and took off running. The spongy needle carpet that covered the forest floor dampened the sounds of his footfalls. He moved with barely a whisper through the trees. A stream was to his left shoulder as he galloped northward. Head low and tail raised like a proud silver banner streaming behind him, Felnore streaked through the impenetrable gloom. He was able to see everything as clear as day as his eyes constantly scanned the forest for any signs of movement.

Hours were reduced to minutes as the passage of time was overcome by the joy of running free. The danger in these trees was very real but that did not mean he could not enjoy the moment. His thoughts turned homeward when he picked up on the scent of cloves. Clove oil in the sea of pine and fir.

Something did not belong here.

The moment the scent tickled his nose, Felnore's back-legs locked and he skidded to a standstill before he took cover behind a large lichen-covered log. His sides heaved as he breathed heavily through his nose. Panting was not possible with his mouth full of cloth. Listening carefully, he lifted his head over the log to take a look.

Nothing seemed odd or out of place. There were not footfalls or snapped twigs. He listened, stock still for minutes, but aside from the call of an owl on the hunt, all was as it should be.

Felnore did not like it. He did not trust these trees and the secrets they kept.

If his ears could not hear the threat, then his nose would root it out.

He stayed low to the ground as he scented the air for that tell-tale smell of clove. It was faint but he had a good enough nose to lock onto it and follow it to the source. All thoughts of the run were cast aside as he prowled from tree to tree, sniffing and listening for what the forest would not telling him.

As the scent grew stronger, Felnore sunk deeper into the ground until he dragged his belly and tail through the undergrowth. It was difficult to remain so low, but he forced himself to become as small a target as possible which was no easy feat for a wolf that stood a nearly eight feet tall on its hind legs.

Clove oil. He knew that smell. Any blacksmith worth their forge used the oil to coat their blades to protect them from the elements. It was a staple in the smith's trade and if there was clove oil in the forest, there would be a weapon. Or many weapons.

The smell clove oil was potent but it could not mask the tell-all scent of leather and metal forever. Felnore stilled, one paw raised slightly mid-step, as he tried to make sense of what his nose told him.

Heavy metal. Forged blades. Could it be hunters? The Silver Hand?

There was too much metal for it to just be hunters. And that was high grade leather. Elk. Deer. Werewolf hunters could not afford such things, not in such a vast quantity.

Every inch of his bulk was pressed flat as Felnore sidled up to the thickest tree trunk and ever so carefully, peered around its base.

There was the leather. And the weapons. And a wall of furred deer pelts belted at the waist with strips of seasoned elk hide.

Ulfric's Stormcloak fighters.

An entire troop of them, all armed to the teeth and covered head to toe in dirt and leaves. They were expertly camouflaged among the trees and their scent was masked under all that forest muck. None moved from where they sat, backs to the trees, heads forward, spears cradled in the crook of their arms.

Felnore tried and failed to make out the numbers. These soldiers were primed and ready to fight at a moment's noticed. It was a small miracle that they were asleep.

Stenvar's warning was all too true.

This troop was close enough to Whiterun that once out of the forest, they could march on the city in a number of hours. Felnore knew in his bones that there had to be more of these battalions hidden throughout Falkreath's vast woodland.

And what of the north? Were more of Ulfric's forces hidden in the northern hills of the Pale? By the nine Divines, what about the west?

Felnore had foolishly thought that Ulfric's Stormcloak threat would come from the east, from the Eastmarch hold where his seat of power was based. Felnore never would have believed that the leader of the Nordic uprising would be wily enough to plant his forces all over the country without being discovered. How could so many people maneuver across the region without being detected?

Felnore could see the answer in the grim faces of the sleeping rebels. They were all Nords. The sons and daughters of Skyrim. They all had families and allies in this land, the blood of their ancestors existed in the very rocks and trees. These people knew the Nine Holds better than anyone. If they wanted to move about unseen, they could easily do so.

Felnore had gravely underestimated the abilities of the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion. He had the gut-twisting feeling that he was not the only one to do so either.

The great bear was a smart bastard. And he was about to unleash hell onto an unsuspecting city. The people of Whiterun needed to be warned.

"WOLF!"

Sleeping figures suddenly sprang to life as a spear thudded into the tree that Felnore hid behind. A sentry had somehow spotted him. Felnore would have yelped in surprise. Instead he did the only sensible thing he could think in such a circumstance. He turned tail and ran like crazy.

The cry of "wolf" went up throughout the encampment. Weapons were gathered, armour readied as the entire troop rose to its feet. Much to Felnore's alarm, a series of booming barks soon followed him as he stretched out to his full stride and increased his speed.

War dogs! Dammit!

The situation had gone from bad to worse.

His only hope now lay in his speed. There was no chance he would survive a rush encounter with an entire armed troop of warriors, no matter how viciously he tore through their ranks. There were just too many of them and they would be ready for him. As for these damn mutts, they were bred to track and kill anything they were commanded to. They would not stop until they were either killed or called off by their handlers.

He did not have the stamina to fight them off and run for the plains at the same time.

So Felnore ran for his life and the lives of all those who depended on him. He ran through, over, around, and under everything in his path as the baying of the dogs followed. Loudly at first but eventually the sound grew fainter. Yet, it never stopped. The dogs kept after him and behind them, a fraction of Ulfric's forces followed.

The element of surprise was no longer theirs.

A wolf had tripped the clever trap.

A wolf on the run.

In those final hours of darkness, the wolf felt fear. Alone, running for his life, Felnore knew that eventually the strength and speed that had carried him this far would run out. He prayed to whatever deity that was listening that his legs would not give out until he crossed the threshold of the city. He could die a hundred deaths just as long as he could give his girls a fighting chance. 

The toxic fear for their wellbeing drove him onward. When the tears in his paws deepened, he kept going. When the ceaseless barking began to grow louder, he dug deep and ran on. When his body began to shake as the strength of the wolf began to fade, he did not stop.

Up the shallow river he waded to hide his scent and buy some time. He staggered over slippery rocks and pushed on until he finally saw it. The rising spire of the Whiterun stood out against the empty landscape. He could make out the white crumbling walls of the ancient city and stood untouched.

There was still time to warn them.

Felnore put one paw in front of the other until he stopped feeling the ground. He pushed himself past the point of pain as his long strides began to shorten. The closer he came to the city, the harder it was to keep running. It wasn't until he tripped over himself did he realize that his body had begun to shift without him realizing it.

The wolf had carried him as far as it could. Now it was up to the man to get the job done.

On shredded palms and bloodied knees, Felnore swallowed a lungful of morning air as his senses slowly adjusted to back to human. The wolf was gone completely and he was left shaking from exhaustion and the cold.

Although every inch of his body screamed in protest Felnore hauled himself upright. His knees buckled but he just stood once more. When his legs gave way a second time he rolled onto his side and reached for the sodden trousers that had fallen from his mouth. He could not let his girls see him like this, a wild wounded animal. This was not the last image he wanted them to remember him by. Even if it killed him to do so, he would return to Whiterun as a man, not a monster.

Partially clothed, Felnore picked himself up a third time and started walking.

The very sight of him staggering half-naked out of the early morning mist startled the guards stationed at the mouth of the city. Bloody footprints trailed behind him on the ancient stones of the main road that led straight to the city gates. He looked like a harbinger of ill tidings and from the direction he had come, the faint barking of dogs could be heard.

The armoured men bearing the colours and horsehead standard of Whiterun on their shields braced themselves until one of them recognized the man who fell forward but continued crawling toward them on his hands and knees.

"Isn't that one of the Companions?"

"Yes, that's the Greymane one. What happened to him?"

"Come on then. We better help him. Companion! What has happened!"

Felnore did not have the energy to shout out the warning. Instead he waited until they came to his side and took him by the arms. Only when he was upright once more did he speak.

"Message for the Jarl. He must be warned. Warn the city. Gather defenses. The Stormcloak army is coming to attack Whiterun. They are right behind me. Hundreds of them. They are coming."

Once the words left his mouth, Felnore's body finally gave in to the strain of the past forty-eight hours. The guards struggled to share his weight between them as they looked at each other in alarm.

"You think it's true? Should we take him to the Jarl?" One of them asked, stunned from what he had heard.

"Red skies this morning. There will be blood this day. And the Companions never lie. If he says an attack is coming, then we better prepare ourselves." The other noted sagely as he draped Felnore's arm across his shoulders.

Between the two of them, the guards carried Felnore through the city's massive wooden main gates before they gave the order to have them locked and barricaded.

Word spread like wildfire as the inhabitants of Whiterun woke to the urgent hammering on their doors. Once the word had gone out, everyone was up and moving as fast as they could. The Stormcloak army was on its way to attack their city. They would be ready to meet them when they did.


End file.
